There’s a guy, Lepski thought. A real, nice, regular guy. He straightened his bow tie which was worrying him, then he went out on to the terrace where his four patrolmen were standing watchfully in obscure corners.
He wasn’t to know he was wasting their and his time. When the attack was to come, it would come in the soft underbelly of the Casino — in the vault where no police officer was on guard.
The money passing across the green-baize tables was as nothing compared to the money steadily piling up in the vault. The gamblers were having a bad night. The money was flowing into the Casino’s vault… thousands and thousands of dollars.
In the cool atmosphere of the vault Rita Watkins directed the operation of handling the in-and-out flow of the money.
The girls fed the stacks of money as the money came from the elevators into an electronic device that automatically sorted the bills into their various denominations. The machine then counted them, clocking the total on a calculator. The bills were then paper-banded in fifty lots by the machine and were fed through a slot where two other girls piled the banded money in its various denominations on a rack.
Money came in: money went out. When a red light flashed under a number on Rita’s desk, she directed more money to be sent up in the elevator, noting the number of the table in the gambling hall that had called for more supplies. The work was fast and non-stop, and no girl could afford to fumble.
Watching them, seated on stools, either side of the steel door of the vault, were two armed guards.
One of them, a tall, rangy youth whose name was Hank Jefferson, was bored to tears with his job. He thought if he had to sit on this stool, watching all that money for another few weeks, he would go screwy. He was planning to put in for a transfer. Even walking around the outside of the Casino endlessly was better than sitting in this vault just staring at thousands of dollars.
The other guard, an older man, heavily built and slightly balding, was Bic Lawdry. He had the mind of a vegetable and was happy enough to watch the girls, studying their trim bodies, dreaming erotic dreams as he picked his teeth with a match end, satisfied that he had the softest job in the world.
Beyond the steel door was a long passage that led to the Staff entrance to the Casino. At the door that led to the rear of the Casino and to a broad strip of tarmac where trucks arrived each morning delivering food, drink, cigarettes and other provisions for the restaurant, was a doorman.
Sid Regan, the doorman, was sixty-one years of age. In another four years he would have to retire. He had worked at the Casino for thirty-eight years. He was short, fat and bulky with an amiable, freckled face, thinning, greyish hair and small, humorous eyes. Regan loved his job. He regretted he was slowly but inevitably reaching the age when he would no longer work at the Casino. He was what is known as a character. This, perhaps, was kind. The younger members of the staff called him a goddam, yakiting, old bore.
The trouble with Regan was he had too many memories. He couldn’t resist talking about the good old days. Few bothered to listen to him, but this didn’t discourage him. He always managed to find some unwary person who, trapped by his guile, had to stand impatiently while he described with a wealth of detail the glories of the past.
This bulky, elderly man, who did his job well, who had given years of faithful service, represented Harry Lewis’s most serious mistake with his staff. Regan had a very important job: to see no one should ever pass his glass box without being known or without he being absolutely sure of their credentials. Regan was proud of his responsibility, and this Maisky had discovered. Maisky had found out by listening to gossip that Regan liked to act on his own initiative. He disliked being told anything. He had held his job successfully for years… he wasn’t a kid. Why should he be told what to do? Maisky was gambling on this attitude of Regan’s, and it was a successful gamble.
When Regan saw a small truck with the well-known I.B.M. letters painted on its sides pull up at the Staff entrance, he was puzzled, but not suspicious. He decided that something had gone wrong and Head Office had failed to alert him. He was thinking, as Jess Chandler got out of the truck, that those girls in the office were getting more and more inefficient.
Chandler had been well coached by Maisky. He walked up to the glass box, pushed his peaked cap to the back of his head and nodded to Regan.
“You have a breakdown in the vault,” he said. “My goddam luck! I was right in the middle of a musical on the Telly when the call came through. What a time!” He handed a delivery note to Regan. “Let’s snap it up, mister. You know about it, don’t you?”
Maisky had impressed on Chandler to use this phrase. He had watched Regan as he had walked to and fro from the Casino to his home. He had seen him stop and talk to people and had seen their desperately bored expressions. He had come to the correct conclusion that Regan imagined that he was the Casino, and he felt certain that Regan would never admit to not knowing about such an important event as a calculator having broken down in the vault.
But his guess hung on a knife’s edge. For a split second, Regan was in two minds whether to call the office for confirmation, then, knowing the office was shut and feeling hurt that no one had bothered to consult him, he accepted the delivery note, shifted his glasses to the end of his nose and studied it. This was in order. It had taken Maisky some days to get a printed form from I.B.M.’s local office, but he had got it.
“Yeah… yeah,” Regan said, pushing up his glasses and regarding Chandler. “I know all about it. They are waiting for you, boy. You take it right in,” and he banged down the rubber stamp on the delivery note: a stamp that cleared anyone walking into the forbidden territory.
Wash now appeared from out of the truck, and a moment later, Perry appeared. While Wash and Chandler man-handled the big carton out of the truck, Perry strolled over to Regan’s glass box.
“Hi, pal,” he said, feeding a cigarette between his thin lips. “Are you the guy who had his photo in the paper last week?”
This again was information supplied by Maisky who had told Perry to use it.
Regan preened himself, taking off his glasses.
“That was me. You see it? Mind you, it’s an old picture, but I reckon I don’t change much. I’ve been in this box for thirty-eight years. Imagine! You can understand why they put my photo in the paper, can’t you?”
“Is that right?” Perry’s fat face showed impressed astonishment. “Thirty-eight years! For Pete’s sake! I’ve only lived in this City for three years. I bet you’ve seen a lot of changes, mister.”
Again this was Maisky’s dialogue. Regan snapped at it as a trout snaps at a fly.
By now Chandler and Wash were past him and walking down the narrow corridor, carrying the carton.
“Changes?” Regan said, accepting the cigarette Perry offered him. “You bet. I remember…”
Outside, sitting in the truck, his clawlike hands gripping the steering wheel, Maisky waited.
* * *
Twenty-five minutes before the truck arrived at the Staff entrance, Mish Collins drove up to the Casino in his hired car, swung a tool box over his shoulder by its leather strap, got out and stared up at the lighted entrance.
The doorman, magnificent in his bottle-green and cream uniform, converged on him. The doorman considered this big, fat man in uniform was spoiling the de luxe background of the Casino.
Before he could remonstrate, Mish gave him a friendly grin and said, “You have an emergency. Mr. Lewis flashed us. Seems you have a circuit breakdown somewhere.”
The doorman stared at him.
“I haven’t heard about it,” he said. He had been with the Casino almost as long as Regan. He had collected a fortune in tips by opening and shutting car doors. During the years of standing in the hot sunshine, doing a simple, mechanical job, he had become alarmingly slow witted.
“Look, chum,” Mish said, his voice suddenly sharp, “do I have to worry about that? This is an emergency. It’s no skin off my snout if the elect
ricity fails, but I’ve got this call and whoever made the call is laying eggs. Where do I find the fuse boxes?”
The doorman blinked, then suddenly realised what it would mean if the Casino was without electricity. He broke out in a cold sweat.
“Sure… I’ll show you… you come with me.”
Mish had almost to run to keep up with him as he led him down a narrow alley, lined on either side by orange trees, heavy with fruit, and to a steel door, set in a wall.
The doorman produced a key and unlocked the door.
“There you are,” he said, snapping on the light. “What’s wrong?”
“How do I know, pal?” Mish said, setting down his tool box. “I’ll have to take a look, won’t I? You want to stay and watch?”
The doorman hesitated. Somewhere at the back of his turgid mind he vaguely remembered the rules of the Casino: no one should be allowed into the control room without authorisation and should never be left alone there. But this was only the vaguest memory. He thought of the people still arriving at the Casino, even at this late hour, and the dollar tips he was missing. He eyed Mish’s uniform and the tool box with Paradise City Electricity Corp. written on the lid in startling white letters.
What was he worrying about? he thought. He should be on his job.
“You fix it,” he said. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Don’t rush,” Mish said. “I’ll be here for at least half an hour.”
“Well, okay, but you wait here. Don’t go away until I get back.” The doorman hurried away up the path.
Mish grinned. He turned to examine the fuse boxes. He quickly found the fuse that controlled the calculator. He had some minutes yet before he went into action. He lit a cigarette and then opened the tool box.
He was very calm and sure of success.
* * *
Bic Lawdry felt a drop of sweat roll down his nose and then drop on his hand. He had been dozing and, surprised, he stiffened, now aware of the heat in the vault. His fat face creased into a puzzled frown.
“Hey! Ain’t it getting hot in here?” he demanded, leaning over to give Hank Jefferson a shove. Hank was absorbed in a paperback with a jacket picture of a naked girl lying in a pool of blood.
“Wrap up!” Hank said. “I’m busy.”
Bic wiped the sweat off his nose and glared at the air conditioner. He slid off his stool and walked over to the machine, putting his hand against the grille. Only hot, steamy air was being forced out by the fan.
“The goddam thing’s broken down,” He announced.
The four girls were working at high pressure. The tide was now turning, and the gamblers had at last hit a winning streak.
Rita, busy answering the red flashes on her desk, felt her dress sticking to her, but she couldn’t stop. The activity and the need for concentration allowed her only to wave her hand, signalling to Bic to do something about the breakdown.
Such was Bic’s nature, he looked helplessly at Hank. If he could find someone to take action on any little thing, he inevitably passed the buck.
“Hank! Quit that muck! The air conditioner has packed up!”
Hank dragged his eyes away from the small print. Right now, a girl was being raped. She was putting up a terrific fight and the lurid details intrigued him. He considered Bic dumb and lazy, and he had no patience with him.
“Drop dead!” he said. “You do something about it for a change.” Then he returned to his reading.
There came a sharp rap on the door, and at the same time the whining sound from the calculator slowed, then suddenly ceased.
“Damn!” Rita exclaimed. “Now the calculator has stopped!”
The four girls paused. They suddenly realised how warm the vault was growing. The piles of money, some banded, some only halfway through the counting machine, now lay in inert piles.
Again the rap sounded on the door.
With a sigh of exasperation, Hank got off his stool, shoved his paperback into his hip pocket and opened the grilled, judas window. He saw a tall, good-looking man, wearing a peak cap with the yellow and black I.B.M. badge on it, regarding him.
“Yeah?”
“Delivering a calculator,” Chandler said brisky. “You’ve got trouble, haven’t you?”
Hank stared at him, his alert mind immediately suspicious. “You psychic or something? It’s only just this moment broken down.”
“Had a call from Mr. Lewis,” Chandler said and shoved the delivery note through the judas window.
Rita came over and took the delivery note from Hank. She saw Regan’s stamp on it and that was enough for her.
“For heaven’s sake! Let them in! Let’s get this thing working again,” she said, then rushed back to her desk where the red lights were flashing.
Hank unlocked the door.
“Okay… come on in.”
The heat in the room had risen sharply.
“Miss Watkins,” one of the girls complained, “can’t we get something done? It’s so hot here…”
“All right… all right,” Rita snapped. “Give me a minute…” Chandler and Wash were now in the vault. They set down the big carton on a desk. As they did so, Mish, with excellent split-second timing, replaced the fuse to the air conditioner.
With a protesting growl, the machine started up again.
“There you are,” Rita said, waving her hands. “It’s on again.”
Chandler, very tense, but his hands steady, half lifted the lid of the carton. Maisky had made it easy for him. The lid lifted easily. As he slid his hand into the carton, groping for a gun, Hank moved over, a puzzled, suspicious expression on his lean face.
Bic had already returned to his stool. Now the air conditioner was working, he was happy to return to his dreams.
Wash stepped forward, blocking Hank off, his back to him. He was having difficulty in breathing. Sweat dripped down his black face.
Chandler’s hand found the gun. He whipped it out of the carton, then took a quick step away from the desk. Well rehearsed, Wash leaned forward, getting out of Chandler’s range of fire. He reached into the carton, grabbed up a gas mask and with shaking hands, put it on.
Chandler was yelling, “None of you move! This is a stick-up. Hear me? None of you move!”
Hank froze, his eyes widened as Wash, now with his gas mask on, whirled around, gun in hand. Bic sat motionless on his stool, his fat face stricken with alarm. Very slowly, he raised his hands above his head.
Rita, calm, slid her foot towards the hidden alarm button under her desk. She found and pressed it, not knowing that ten minutes before the raid, Mish had removed the fuse that controlled the alarm system.
Swearing under his breath, Chandler had trouble in getting his mask on, but he got it on finally while the two guards were threatened by Wash’s gun. Then Chandler rapped the head of the gas cylinder hard on the desk.
The result startled him. The cylinder seemed to jump in his hand. A cloud of white vapour suddenly filled the room. Dropping the cylinder, Chandler started back.
Maisky had told him the gas would operate in ten seconds. He hadn’t believed this was possible. Hank was standing right in the middle of the cloud as it exploded out of the cylinder. He went down as if his legs had become boneless, slamming against Chandler and sending him staggering.
Rita Watkins, also near the congestion of gas, went next. Her hand started to her throat, but failed to complete the journey. She spread across her desk, her skirts riding up over her thighs, her long hair cascading into a wastepaper basket full of discarded memos.
The other girls collapsed almost simultaneously. The last to go was Bic Lawdry. With bulging eyes and a limp hand groping for his .45, he struggled off the stool, then his legs gave way and he crashed down on the floor at Wash’s feet.
Chandler stood for a long moment staring through the goggles of his mask, feeling sick and frightened, then seeing Wash was already taking up handfuls of neatly packed $500 bills, he pulled himself together and joined him.
Working like madmen, they quickly filled the carton. Even in his panic, Chandler realised that Wash was much calmer than he was. The negro was stacking the bills fast, but with care, using every available inch of space in the carton.
Seven minutes later, the carton was full. Chandler replaced the lid.
“Come on… let’s get out of here!” he said, his voice muffled, his face, under the mask, streaming with sweat.
Wash motioned to the rack containing the $5 bills. Chandler had forgotten Maisky’s instructions. He ran to the rack and taking several bundles of money, wedged them into his hip pockets and in the pockets of his blouse. Wash followed his example.
Unable to carry more, the two men looked at each other and nodded.
They were aware of three blinking red lights on Rita’s desk. Chandler was aware too of Rita’s long legs and her white thighs as she sprawled across the desk.
They caught hold of the carton, startled by its weight, then, opening the steel door, they edged out into the passage.
By this time the air conditioner had cleared the gas, and they paused to rip off their gas masks.
Fifteen yards down the passage, Perry, his broad back blocking Regan’s view of the vault door, continued to listen to the old man’s story of a gambler who, having lost all his money, had offered his mistress on the next spin of the wheel.
“With his luck running so bad,” Regan said, grinning, “I’d have taken the bet. She was quite a chick. Mind you, I like ’em built big, and this chick was the original feather bed.” He shook his head. “They threw him out and the chick as well… a darn shame.”
Leaving the gas masks on the floor, Chandler and Wash, Wash walking backwards, moved down the corridor, carrying the carton.
Perry glanced over his shoulder.
“Well, I guess the boys have fixed it,” he said. “Glad to have talked to you, mister… a privilege. You sure have been interesting. I’ll get the truck open.”
He walked into the hot, still night and opened the truck. Maisky, dying little deaths, heard the doors open. He started the car’s engine.
Well Now, My Pretty… Page 6