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 go
t 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 ha
lf 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!
Well Now, My Pretty… Page 8