THE SKY was turning a vivid crimson as the sun sank behind the foothills. Tom Whiteside glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was eighteen minutes after eight.
“We’ll use the dirt road,” he said. “It’ll save ten miles. We should be home in another hour.”
Sheila Whiteside said nothing. She had been sulking now for the past hour, ever since they had had the row about the gold watch she wanted as her first wedding anniversary present. As Whiteside had pointed out, the watch cost $180, and where was he going to find that kind of money?
He glanced at her, then away. He was feeling depressed. What a vacation! he thought. He had had an idea that he was asking for trouble when he had insisted that they should go camping. Camping, for God’s sake! But how else could they have afforded to spend two weeks away from home? They certainly couldn’t have afforded a hotel or even a cheap motel. He had borrowed the camping equipment from a friend for free. It was a pretty good outfit with a fair-sized tent, cooking equipment and sleeping bags. But what a fiasco that had turned out to be! Sheila had stuck her toes in and had refused to cook. This was her vacation, she had declared. If they couldn’t afford a hotel, then he could do the cooking. He could run the camp. She was going to sunbathe and do nothing.
Tom squirmed at the memory of those past two weeks. He hadn’t been able to master the Calor gas cooker. The food was either burnt or undercooked. Sheila had lazed in the sun, wearing the skimpiest bikini, and the constant sight of her near nakedness had tried Tom almost beyond endurance.
He recalled with frustration they hadn’t made love during the whole of those fourteen days. Several times he had made advances during the day, but this was something Sheila just wouldn’t tolerate. Then at night she got into her sleeping bag, and how the hell was a man to go into action when his wife was in a sleeping bag? Yet he had to endure the sight of her going around looking like an erotic dream, deliberately showing herself off, until there were times when he was fit to climb a tree.
How was it possible, he was continually asking himself, that a girl with such a body, with such beauty, could be so utterly frigid? What a trap! To look at her, you would think… as all his friends thought… she was hotter than a redhot stove. She was tall, broad shouldered with large, firm breasts, a narrow waist, solid hips and long, lovely legs. She had natural ash- blonde hair, violet eyes fringed with thick eyelashes, a wide, beautiful mouth, splendid teeth and high cheekbones. There were times, when her eyes were alive and her lips curved into an inviting smile, that she could pass for Marilyn Monroe’s sister.
Since he had been so lucky to have married a girl with her looks and her body and that inviting smile, he naturally expected a sexual appetite to go along with the other assets, but here he had been painfully wrong. The sexual act meant less to Sheila than blowing her beautiful nose in a Kleenex.
As Tom coaxed his 1959 Corvette Sting Ray along the Miami highway, aware that there was no pull in the engine and the compression was getting flabbier with every mile he drove, he thought back to the time — fourteen months ago — when he had first met Sheila.
Tom had reached the age of thirty-two without finding success. He was a commission-only salesman working for General Motors branch in Paradise City. Tall, heavily built, dark, with pleasant, rather ordinary features, he had been struggling ever since he had left school to get into the high-income bracket he was sure his talents deserved. The trouble, of course, he was constantly telling himself and his friends, was that he lacked capital. With capital, a guy with his ideas couldn’t fail to hit the jackpot, but without capital well what, could you do?
But the real trouble with Tom was that he lacked drive. He was a dreamer. He dreamed of riches, but he hadn’t the energy or the ability to make money.
Had it not been for his father, Dr. John Whiteside, now dead, Tom would be out of a job. But some years ago, Dr. Whiteside had saved the life of Claude Locking’s wife. This was something Locking, who was the manager of General Motors, could not forget. Because he was grateful to the memory of Dr. Whiteside, he tolerated his inefficient son.
Fourteen months ago, Tom had delivered a Cadillac, Fleetwood Brougham to a rich client who lived in Miami, taking the client’s Oldsmobile Sedan in part exchange.
Tom had driven the Sedan back to Paradise City, feeling pretty good as he sat the wheel. This was the kind of car he should own, he told himself, instead of the crummy Sting Ray that was just about falling apart.
The run from Miami was hot and long, and he had decided, since he had made a good commission on the sale of the Brougham, that he would stop off at a motel for the night, have a decent dinner, get a good night’s rest and then go on to Paradise City in the morning.
He pulled into the Welcome Motel around nine o’clock, parking the Sedan in one of the bays. After dinner, he went to his cabin, took a shower and went to bed.
He was tired, relaxed and well fed. He looked forward to a good night’s rest, but as he turned off the light, a radio in the cabin next door started up, sending strident swing music through the thin partition and bringing him wide awake.
He lay in bed, cursing the noise for some twenty minutes, hoping that the radio would be turned off. A little after eleven o’clock with the noise still tormenting him, he put on the light, struggled into his dressing-gown and banged on the door of the adjacent cabin.
There was a pause, then the door opened and he found himself face to face with the most intriguingly beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Tom often thought of his first meeting with his future wife. She was wearing a light blue wool sweater that emphasised her firm, overdeveloped bust. Her short black skirt seemed to be painted on her. Her long legs were bare and her narrow feet were in cork-soled sandals.
He thought she was wonderful and over-poweringly sexy, and when she smiled, showing her dazzlingly white, movie-star teeth, he was struck speechless.
“I bet you don’t like my radio,” she said. “Is that right?”
“Well…”
“Okay. I’ll turn it off. I’m sorry.” She looked beyond him at the Oldsmobile under the parking lights. “That your car?”
“Yes,” Tom said, the lie coming easily. He put his hand on the door post and looked at her, his eyes moving over that incredible bust.
“Some car.”
He grinned.
“Some girl.”
They laughed.
“Why don’t you come in?” She stood aside. “I’m Sheila Allen.”
He moved into the cabin, closing the door. He watched her turn off the radio, his eyes on the solidness of her hips, feeling his blood move faster, thinking she wouldn’t need a pillow under her in bed.
“I’m Tom Whiteside. I don’t mean to be a crab. I was trying to sleep.”
She waved him to an armchair and sat on the bed. Her skirt rode up and he could see her smooth white thighs. He looked away, rubbing his jaw as he sat down.
“You’re lucky to be able to sleep,” she said. “I can’t sleep. I don’t know why it is. I never get off before two.”
“Some people are like that.” He studied her. The more he looked at her the more infatuated with her he became. “I can sleep any time.”
She found a pack of cigarettes, shook two out, lit them and gave him one. There was a slight smear of lipstick on the cigarette. It gave him a bang as he put the cigarette between his lips.
“You wouldn’t be going to Paradise City tomorrow?” she asked.
“Why, sure. I live there. Are you going there?”
“Yes. There’s a bus around nine…”
“Come with me.”
She smiled, her big eyes opening wide.
“I was hoping you would say that. You work there?”
“That’s right… General Motors.”
“Gee! That must be a pretty good job.”
He waved his hand airily.
“It’s not so bad. I look after the whole district. Yeah, I can’t complain. What are you planning to do in Paradise City?”
“Look for a job. Think I’ll find anything?”
“Sure… a girl like you. Any ideas?”
“I’m not much good at anything… a waitress… a hostess… something like that.”
“Not much good at anything? Who are you kidding?” He laughed. “You won’t have to dig deep… not with your looks.”
“Thanks… I hope you are right.”
He regarded her, then asked, “Got anywhere to stay?”
“No, but I guess I’ll find something.”
“I know a place. I’ll take you there. It’ll be around $18 a week and it’s nice.”
She shook her head.
“Not for me. I haven’t the money. I can’t go higher than $10.”
“Had it rough?”
“Rough enough.”
“You leave it to me. I’ll find you a place. I know the City like the back of my hand. Where are you from?”
“Miami.”
“What makes you think Paradise City could be better than Miami?”
“Just a change of scenery. I’m a great one for changing the scene.”
“Well…” He stared at her, then got to his feet. “I’ll be leaving at nine tomorrow morning. That suit you?”
“Suits me fine.” She stood up, smoothed down her skirt and then came close to him. “I’ll pay for the ride if you want me to.”
There was that look in her eyes that made him flush.
“I don’t want any payment… it’ll be a pleasure.”
“Most men would.” She turned her head and looked at the bed. “That kind of payment.”
Tom would have given a lot to have taken her up on the offer, but he found he couldn’t. This girl suddenly meant much more to him than a quick roll in the hay.
“Not me,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Then nine o’clock tomorrow.”
She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. The feel of her soft lips against his sent his blood hammering.
“I like you… you’re nice,” she said, smiling at him.
He hadn’t slept much that night. The following morning, he drove her to Paradise City and found her a tiny room for $8 a week. Away from her, he found he was continually thinking of her. In the past he had got around and had had a number of girls, but none of them affected him the way this girl did. He called on her the following evening. He had borrowed, without permission, the Oldsmobile Sedan, and he was wearing his sharpest suit. They had dinner at an expensive sea food restaurant on the outskirts of the City. It was understandable that Sheila believed she was being courted by a successful, wealthy young business man.
Ever since Sheila had been dumped, at the age of twelve, by her parents on a State highway and left there to fend for herself, she had been in and out of all kinds of trouble, just keeping clear of the Law. She had always looked older than her years. She was now twenty-two. From being a waitress, a dance hostess, a stripper and a receptionist at a two-dollars-a-night hotel, she had finally become one of Miami’s many Call girls. This hadn’t lasted long. She had helped herself to the contents of a client’s wallet and had had to leave Miami in a hurry. She now had fifty dollars in her purse and she wasn’t inclined to look for work. She saw Tom Whiteside was infatuated with her, and she decided the fifty dollars would last long enough to keep her until she married him.
They were married when one dollar fifty remained in her purse. It had been a close thing.
Both of them were in for a sharp disappointment. Sheila discovered that Tom lived in a small, shabby bungalow, left him by his father, and that he was neither wealthy nor successful. Tom found she was completely incompetent to run his home. She was lazy; she was frigid and she was continually asking for money.
They had been married now for twelve months. They made the best of a bad job. It suited Sheila to have a roof over her head and regular meals. It suited Tom to have a glamorous- looking wife. At least, if he didn’t get any satisfaction from his marriage, he did bask in the envy of his friends, who thought Sheila was sensational.
He turned off the Miami highway on to the dirt road that led through the pine forest down to the Paradise City highway. He switched on his headlights. The sun had gone down behind the foothills. It was now turning dark.
Sheila said abruptly, “About that watch… you may not know it, but any decent husband gives his wife a wedding anniversary present. There’s nothing else I want so much. I should have something I want.”
Tom sighed. He hoped she had put the goddamn watch out of her mind.
“I’m sorry, baby. We just can’t afford that kind of money. I’ll find you a watch, but it’s not going to cost $180.”
“I want this watch.”
“Yeah… I know… you told me, but we can’t afford it.”
“I must have been crazy to have married you,” she said with an outburst of bitterness. “All those lies about your success. Success? What a joke! You can’t afford anything! We don’t even get a decent vacation. Camping! God! I should have had my head examined!”
“Would you kindly shut up?” Tom said. “You’re no ball of fire youself. Look at the way you keep house… like a pigstye. All you’re any good at is watching TV.”
“Oh, knock it off!” Her voice was strident and hard. “You bore me. Mr. Successful who can’t afford $180. Mr. Successful…” She laughed. “Mr. Cheapie, I would say.”
The car slowed and Tom pushed down on the accelerator. The car continued to slow, not answering to the extra gas.
“Do you mind?” Sheila said, heavy sarcasm in her voice. “I would like to get home. You may like this dreary scenery, but I don’t. Couldn’t we go a little faster?”
The engine gave a splutter and died. They were going downhill and Tom quickly shifted the automatic gear stick into neutral. They continued to coast down the road as he cursed under his breath.
“What’s the matter now?” Sheila demanded, rounding on him.
“The engine’s packed up.”
“It only wanted that. What do you expect with a cripple like this? So what are you going to do?”
As the road began to climb, the car slowed and stopped. Tom stared into the pools of light made by the car’s headlights. Then, shrugging, he took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car and opened the hood. He had had a thorough training in servicing G.M. cars and it took him only a few minutes to find the gas pump had packed up. There was nothing he could do about this. He slammed the hood shut as Sheila got out of the car.
“We’re stuck,” he said. “The pump’s gone. It’s a five-mile walk down to the highway. I might be lucky to catch the last bus. You had better stay here.”
“Stay here?” Sheila’s voice went shrill. “I’m not staying here on my own!”
“Well, okay, then you better come with me.”
“I’m not walking five miles!”
Tom regarded her, exasperated.
“So what do we do?”
“You and your lousy car! What a vacation!”
“Will you shut up about our vacation? I’m sick and tired of you complaining.”
“So we spend the night here. Get the sleeping bags out.”
Tom hesitated, then went to the back of the car. He got the sleeping bags off the rear seat and found the picnic basket. He was hungry, tired and depressed. He locked the car, then threw the beam of his flashlight to right and left. Seeing a narrow path facing him, he went ahead, and found himself in a tree- surrounded glade.
“Sheila! This will do. We can sleep here. Come on. You want something to eat?”
Maisky, lying in his cave, heard Tom’s voice. He sat up, his body stiff with apprehension.
Sheila joined Tom in the glade, muttering as she picked her way over the rough ground. Tom had put down the sleeping bags and was opening the picnic basket.
She sat on one of the sleeping bags, took out a cigarette and lit it.
“The end of a perfect vacation,” she said. “Oh, boy! Is this something for my memory book! I’ve enjoyed every minute of it!
Tom found some dry slices of ham, a half loaf of bread that was brick hard and a half a bottle of whisky.
He poured two big drinks. He gave Sheila some of the ham and half the loaf. She promptly threw the food into the bushes.
“I’d rather starve than eat that muck!” she said furiously and drank the whisky at a gulp.
“Okay… starve,” Tom said. “I’ve had about all I want from you tonight.” Turning his back on her, he began munching the dry ham.
Leaving his bed of blankets, Maisky crawled to the entrance of the cave. He peered through the branches down into the glade. It was too dark to see anything, but he could hear voices although he was too far away to distinguish what was being said.
He lay on the cold, damp floor of the cave, listening. His body trembled with weakness. Who were these people? What were they doing down there? How long would they stay?
Tom finished his meal, then taking off his windcheater and his shoes, he got into his sleeping bag. Sheila was already in hers.
“Will you try not to snore?” she said. “It only wants you to snore to make this really perfect.”
“Just go to hell!” Tom said bitterly, then trying to make himself comfortable, he closed his eyes.
Sergeant Patrick O’Connor, known in the police force as Gutsey O’Connor, was sixty-one years of age. He had been in the Paradise City police force now for forty odd years. Six feet three, with an enormous belly that had earned him his nickname, a brick-red face and thinning, sandy hair, he was one of the less- liked sergeants attached to the force.
In another year, he planned to retire. He hadn’t done so badly during his service career. He had made a nice slice of money putting the bite on the prostitutes, the pimps, the pushers and the queers who lived in his district. For a $10 bill, he was always ready to look the other way, and although his graft was small over a period of forty years it had totalled up to a respectable sum.
When Beigler told him to take Patrolmen Mike Collon and Sam Wand and search five hundred bungalows in the hope of finding the missing Casino robbers, O’Connor stared at Beigler as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and when Beigler told him to go to the Armoury where he would be issued with tear-gas grenades and automatic weapons, Gutsey O’Connor’s red face turned a purplish white.
He had heard all about the Casino robbers. They were desperate, dangerous men — one of them was a Mafia killer!
O’Connor plodded down to the Armoury thinking that this was just his luck. In another year, he would be free of this kind of caper. He would own his own bungalow, his own car and he planned to grow roses. Now he might very easily get himself killed on this goddam assignment.
He found Mike Colon and Sam Wand waiting for him in the Armoury. Both these patrolmen were young and keen. Colon was big, dark and tough looking with a growing reputation for being smart, and with a number of arrests in his book. Wand was shorter, fair, with steel-grey eyes. He too was keen and ambitious. The kind of punks, O’Connor thought sourly, he would get landed with.
“Okay, fellas,” he said, “get your weapons and let’s go.” He drew an automatic rifle and ammunition from the Sergeant Armourer who grinned unfeelingly at him.
“Watch that big belly of yours, Gutsey,” he said. “You don’t want anyone to make a hole in it. I reckon there’d be enough gas out of that to light the City for a week.”
“Shut your trap!” O’Connor snarled. “All very well for you… you just hand out a gun. I’ve got to use it!”
He stamped out of the Armoury. Collon and Wand exchanged winks. They followed him to the waiting police car and they all piled on. Wand took the wheel.
“North Shore,” O’Connor said, “and snap it up.”
The time was a little after six o’clock when they reached the first row of bungalows that skirted the beach near the Casino. The three officers got out of the car.
“Okay, fellas, start working,” O’Connor said. “You know what to do. Find out who owns the place. If they’ve been there some time, skip the search. If they are renting the place, go over it. I’ll be right here, covering you.”
Wand stared at him.
“Doing what, Sarg?” he asked.
“You deaf? I’m here to cover you,” O’Connor barked. “Get moving!”
The two patrolmen looked at each other in disgust, then set off towards the bungalows. They were both aware of the danger of their assignment, but neither of them hesitated. They never had had any use for Gutsey, and this act of blatant cowardice set their seal of contempt on him.
“Good luck, Mike,” Wand said as he pushed open the wooden gate, leading to the first bungalow. “Watch it.”
“You, too,” Colon said, and moved farther down the lane to the adjacent bungalow.
The search progressed fairly swiftly and unsuccessfully. None of the people renting the bungalows objected to letting the police officers in. They had all heard about the Casino robbery, and were thrilled to be on the fringe of such a daring steal.
Around eight o’clock, the two patrolmen had covered forty of the bungalows, and it was now growing dark. Gutsey O’Connor was sitting in the police car, resting his feet and dozing. He was no longer taking any interest in the search, being convinced it was now just routine and the wanted men weren’t hiding in his district.
But Wand and Callon didn’t relax. They knew that any moment they might turn up these three men and then there would be a battle. Young and as tough as they were, the strain was beginning to tell.
The final bungalow in the long row yielded nothing and they returned to the police car.
“How long do we keep this shindig up?” Wand demanded as O’Connor jerked awake.
“We’d better drive to the South end now,” O’Connor said, trying to sound alert. “The Chief didn’t say anything about knocking off.”
“Sure you wouldn’t like to help out, Sarg?” Wand asked sarcastically. “One more man on the job, and we’d get done that much quicker.”
“I give the orders around here,” O’Connor snapped. “Get in and let’s go.”
They drove farther down the beach road, past a big clump of palm trees until they came within sight of another long row of bungalows.
Without knowing it, they were now within five hundred yards of Maisky’s bungalow. The two patrolmen, their automatic rifles carried at the alert, walked along the sandy road, split up and began rapping on doors again.
At this moment, Mish Collins pushed aside his plate and released a soft belch. That, he told himself, was one of the best meals he had eaten for a long time. Looking across at Lolita who had prepared the meal, there was genuine admiration in his eyes.
“That was swell,” he said. Then to Chandler, “Boy! You certainly can pick them!”
Chandler laid down his knife and fork and grinned.
“She’s something very special.” He patted Lolita’s hand. “That was terrific, baby… and I mean terrific.”
“You men… if a woman can cook, you’re just mush.” Lolita got to her feet. “Sit still. I’ll take care of the dishes,” and rapidly clearing the table, she carried the dishes into the kitchen.
“This is about our one lucky break,” Mish said, lighting a cigarette. He tossed the pack to Chandler. “I really thought she was going to walk out on us.”
Chandler got to his feet and moved over to the open window. It was growing dark now. He could see the moon coming up behind the palm trees, making the sea glitter. He drew the curtains and turned on the light.
“I told you. She and I have an understanding.”
“Do you think we are safe here,” Jess?”
Chandler sat in an easy chair. He let smoke drift down his nostrils.
“Could be. I don’t know. We should work out something, Mish. If the cops did come here, there’s a good hide in the roof. If something started, we could leave Lolita to handle it and you and me get up in the roof.”
“Think her nerve would hold?”
“Sure.”
Mish got to his feet.
“I’m going to grab me some air.”
“Watch it.”
Mish grinned.
“Relax, Jess. I know what I’m doing.”
When he had left the bungalow, Chandler walked into the kitchen where Lolita was finishing the washing up.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
“It’s done.” She took off her apron and came over to him. She leaned hard against him as he put his arms around her. “Where’s Mish?”
“He’s taking the air.” Chandler’s hands slid down her back and cupped her buttocks. “Let’s go to bed, baby.” He pulled her close to him.
“I was only waiting for you to say that.”
They kissed, then, his arm around her, he led her out of the kitchen, down the passage and into the main bedroom. As he was about to close the door, he heard Mish come in. Mish’s movements were hurried. Chandler stiffened. He raised his hand to Lolita, and then stepped into the passage.
“There’s a police car down the road,” Mish said tensely. “They are checking all the bungalows. They’ll be here in half an hour… automatic weapons.”
Lolita came to the door, zipping up her dress.
“What is it?”
“The cops… they’re checking the bungalows,” Chandler said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Mish pointed to the trap door in the ceiling.
“We’ll get up there.”
“Put the radio on,” Chandler said to Lolita. “When they come…”
She was surprisingly calm: a lot calmer than Mish and Chandler.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll handle it, Jess. Just get up there and leave it to me.”
“This could turn into a jam, baby,” Chandler said. He had a sudden spasm of conscience. He had no right to ask her to do this for him. “Maybe you had better go. You still have time…”
“Get up there and be quiet. I’ll handle it.”
He pulled her against him.
“You won’t regret this. When we do get out of this mess, you and I…”
She smiled up at him.
“I know, Jess.”
Mish brought a step ladder from the kitchen. He opened the trap door and hauled himself into the hot space between the roof and the ceiling.
Chandler kissed Lolita, then he climbed up into the roof. Looking down at her, he said, “You are going to handle this beautifully, and I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said and carried the step ladder back into the kitchen.
Chandler let down the trap door, then he took his gun from his hip pocket and snicked back the safety catch.
“Remember, Jess,” Mish said out of the darkness. “It’s us or them. I’m not going back to jail.”
It was after ten o’clock when Wand and Colon walked around the thick, high clump of tropical shrubs and palm trees and came suddenly on Maisky’s bungalow.
Both men came to an abrupt standstill, their sweating hands gripping their automatic rifles, turning their knuckles white.
They stared at the isolated bungalow, seeing a light coming through the curtains of one of the windows.
“If they are anywhere,” Colon said, “this could be it.” ’
Both men were now so jumpy after their four hours of continual checking that they both hesitated. Every door they had knocked on, they had expected to be received by a blast of gunfire. They were now in a demoralised state.
“Look, Mike,” Wand said, “I’ve had enough of this. Let’s get Gutsey to handle this one.”
“Yeah.”
They turned and moving around the palm trees out on to the beach, they signalled to O’Connor who was sitting in the police car, the glowing end of his cigarette showing through the windscreen.
They had to signal three times before O’Connor, cursing under his breath, started the car and drove up to them.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded, glaring at them through the open window of the car.
“There’s a lone bungalow just around the trees,” Wand said. “We think you should handle it, Sarg.”
“What the hell do you mean?” O’Connor exploded. “I’m covering you, ain’t I? You go ahead. Hear me? That’s an order.”
“They could be there,” Wand said. “You’re coming with us, Sarg, or I will turn in a report to the Chief.”
O’Connor glared at him. “About what?”
“That you sat in the car on your fat fanny and let us handle the search. And I’ll do it, Gutsey, even if I get thrown off the force!”
“You call me that again and I’ll knock your goddam teeth out!”
“Fine, Gutsey… try and do it,” Wand said quickly.
O’Connor wiped the sweat off his face. He got out of the car. He was four inches taller than Wand and three times as heavy. He doubled his thick fingers into an enormous fist.
Collon said softly, “You hit him, Sarg, and I’ll hit you.”
O’Connor regarded Collon’s big frame; he was built like a heavyweight champion, and he was young and very tough.
“You two are in real trouble,” O’Connor snarled. “Okay, we’ll go back to headquarters. I’m putting you both on a charge.”
“Fine. The Chief will love it,” Wand said. “We arrive at the one place these hoods could be hiding, and you chicken out and bring us back on a charge. Okay, Sarg, if that’s the way you want it, let’s go back to headquarters. I bet you’ll kiss your pension goodbye.”
O’Connor glared at him, hesitated, then cursed.
“You wait until I get you two back to headquarters.”
“Do you check this bungalow or do we go back?” Wand asked.
Again O’Connor hesitated, but he knew he was trapped. Muttering under his breath, he began walking slowly across the sand until he came within sight of the isolated bungalow. He stopped abruptly. He now saw what these two jerks meant. This was just the place where the wanted men might be. He stared at the light coming through one of the curtained windows, and sweat ran down his fat face.
“You going ahead, Sarg?” Wand asked politely, “or are we staying here the rest of the night?”
O’Connor turned.
“You two guys go ahead. I’ll cover you,” he said.
“Not us, Sarg. You go ahead. We’ll cover you,” Wand said.
“Think they’re in there?” O’Connor said, hesitating.
“You find out, Sarg.”
Slowly, O’Connor began to walk forward. His fat legs were shaky. The other two followed him. He reached the wooden gate that guarded the short path to the bungalow. Here, he paused.
“I’ll go around the back,” Collon said and moved off into the darkness.
When he had gone, O’Connor said, “Look, Sam, I’m an old man. You go ahead. I swear I’ll cover you.”
“Not me, Sarg. I’m a young man. I’ve got a lot longer to live than you have. They could give you a medal.”
Livid, O’Connor turned on him.
“Listen, you jerk, I’ll make your life a misery! You’re refusing to obey an order. You hear me! Go… knock on that door!”
“I’d rather lead a life of misery than have a dead one,” Wand said. “You knock on the door. We’ve already knocked on a hundred doors. You try it for size, Sarg.”
Then the door opened and a girl came out into the moonlight. The light from the hall lit up her silhouette. She was wearing a short, white dress, and the light showed her legs up to her crotch through the dress.
O’Connor drew in a long breath of relief. Scarcely believing his luck, he walked up the path as the girl came towards him.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked. “It’s the police, isn’t it?”
O’Connor reached her and stared down at her. Some bim! he thought. There I was, scared crap silly, and look what comes out of the goddam place!
Wand was close on his heels. The two policemen regarded the girl as she looked from one to the other.
“You live here?” O’Connor asked, pushing his peaked cap to the back of his head and wiping the sweat off his forehead with a grubby handkerchief.
“Of course.” She gave him a dazzling smile.
“Been here long?”
“A couple of weeks… I rent the place. What is it, Sarg?”
“Aw, forget it,” O’Connor said and grinned. “We’re just checking. Didn’t mean to scare you, Miss.”
“Do you mind if we look inside?” Wand said quietly. He was staring at the girl, wondering where he had seen her before. He had seen her. He was sure of that, but where? “You are alone?”
“Yes, I’m alone,” Lolita said. “Go ahead… take a look. What are you looking for?”
As Wand started forward, O’Connor grabbed his arm.
“Stop leaning your weight on everything,” he growled. “We don’t have to worry the little lady. Come on, we still have work to do.”
Hearing voices, Collon came around from the back of the bungalow.
“Come on… come on…” O’Connor said impatiently. He was so relieved that he had escaped trouble, he couldn’t get away fast enough. “Leave her be,” and giving the girl a salute, he started off down the path.
Wand was still staring at Lolita. Then he suddenly remembered where he had seen her. She had been singing and playing a guitar in a restaurant near the harbour. His quick mind told him a girl like her couldn’t afford to pay the rent of a bungalow in this district.
She was smiling at him.
“Do you want to come in?”
“Yeah… I’m coming in. You lead the way.”
She turned and moved into the bungalow, swaying her hips. “Some chick,” Collon said admiringly.
“Watch it,” Wand said out of the corner of his mouth. “This could be it.” He snapped off the safety catch of his rifle. Collon stared at him and seeing his white, set face, he felt a prickle of excitement run up his spine.
O’Connor had reached the gate. He turned and looked back up the path.
“Come on, you jerks!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
Wand moved into the bungalow. Colon, aware now that Wand was more than suspicious, followed him closely, his thumb snapping back the safety catch on his rifle.
“Stay right here,” Wand said softly, “and cover me. Watch it!”
He walked into the living-room. The first thing he noticed was an ashtray on the table loaded with cigarette butts: only a few of them had lipstick smears.
Lolita turned off the radio. She seemed completely at ease and her smile was inviting.
“Go ahead… look around. Can I get you boys a drink?”
“No thanks,” Wand said. He moved past her into the kitchen. He saw three plates in the drying rack, three knives and forks lying on the draining board, and his skin prickled. He opened the refrigerator and looked at the vast stock of food. He knew then that somewhere in this bungalow were the wanted men. Walking as if on eggshells, his rifle pushed forward, his finger on the trigger, he opened the three doors, one after the other, that led into the bedrooms. In the main bedroom, hanging over the back of a chair, he saw a man’s red and blue tie.
He came out into the passage, looked to right and left, then up at the trap door in the ceiling.
Lolita came to the sitting-room door.
“All right?” she asked. The strain was beginning to tell, but she still managed an inviting, convincing smile.
Wand moved forward, riding her back into the sitting-room.
“Okay, sister,” he said, speaking low, “they’re up in the loft, aren’t they?”
Her eyes widened for a brief moment, then she forced a smile, but this time it was a lot less convincing.
“They? I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I know you,” Wand said. “You couldn’t afford to live in this place. You better open up or you’ll be in real trouble. They are up there, aren’t they?”
Lolita’s lips were now pale under her lipstick, but she didn’t give up.
“They? I told you… I’m alone here. What is all this about?”
Wand walked to the door.
“Get Gutsey,” he said to Colon.
Colon went to the front door and waved to O’Connor who was standing by the gate, waiting impatiently. Uneasily, the fat sergeant came up the path.
“What the hell is it now?”
“Take her,” Wand said. “They’re up in the loft.”
O’Connor gaped at him, then he caught hold of Lolita’s arm. He jerked her into the passage as Mish, listening to all this, gently raised the trap door, aimed his gun and squeezed the trigger.
The gun exploded with a bang that rattled the windows. A red stain appeared on O’Connor’s tunic. He went down on his knees, like a stricken ox, his hands clasping his enormous belly.
Lolita screamed and threw herself back into the sitting-room as Colon, jerking up his rifle, ripped in shot after shot through the ceiling.
Mish, hit in the face and through the body, somehow lifted his gun and again squeezed the trigger. Shot through the shoulder, Collon dropped his rifle, falling face down on the floor. Mish tried to regain his balance, then toppled through the trap door, his dying fingers squeezing the trigger of his gun which exploded bullets through the narrow passage. He thudded down on Collon as Wand shot him again through the head.
Wand hurriedly backed into the sitting-room, crouching down on one knee. There were two more of them up there, he thought, not knowing that Jack Perry was already dead.
Carefully sighting his rifle at the already holed ceiling, he fired five quick shots into the ceiling.
“Okay, you two,” he bawled. “Come on down with your hands in the air!”
Lolita, standing against the wall, looked wildly around the room. Her eyes alighted on a heavy glass ashtray. Without hesitating, she reached for it, took three silent steps up to Wand who was staring through the doorway at the open trap and crashed the ashtray down on his head.
He dropped the rifle, gave a groan and fell forward.
Her heart hammering, she jumped over his body and ran to the trap door.
“Jess! Quick! Come down!” she screamed. “We can get away! Come down quick!”
There was a pause, then a scuffling noise and Chandler appeared in the open trap. His face was white and his eyes half closed.
“Beat it, baby,” he said hoarsely. “There’s nothing more you can do for me now… and thanks for everything.”
Blood ran out of his mouth and dripped on to the worn mat in the hall.
Lolita screamed.
“Jess!”
“Beat it,” Chandler gasped, then his eyes rolled back and he sagged forward, his arms hanging close to her face.
She caught hold of his hand, then shuddered and released it. She ran into the bedroom, snatched up her suitcase, threw it on the bed and crammed her things into it. Tears ran down her face and every now and then she caught her breath in a rasping sob.
Carrying the suitcase, she went out into the hall, looked again at Chandler, then, jumping over O’Connor’s great bulk, she ran out into the darkness of the garage. She threw her suitcase into the back of the Mini, got in and started the engine.
She drove fast towards the Miami highway.