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.
FIVE
BY MIDDAY, Chief of Police Terrell had an almost complete picture of the Casino robbery.
Reports, telephone calls, Telex communications between Headquarters and the F.B.I. had swiftly built up a picture of the method of the robbery and a description of the men involved. A set of fingerprints had been found on the tool box left in the Casino’s control room. Back came a report from Washington with Mish Collins’ photograph and record. Another set of fingerprints found on the glass box at the vault’s entrance identified Jack Perry, known as a vicious Mafia killer. They had Jess Chandler’s description from Sid Regan, but so far had failed to turn up his record.
Terrell pushed aside the heap of reports and reached for the carton of coffee.
“Time off, Joe,” he said and poured the coffee into two paper cups. Thankfully, Beigler reached for one of them and lit yet another cigarette. He had been working non-stop since the robbery and he was feeling bushed.
“Well, we are coming along,” Terrell said after a thoughtful sip from his paper cup. “We know four of the men… one dead, but there’s the fifth. It’s a funny thing, Joe, but no one seems to have seen him. We have a good description of the other four, but not the fifth man. I’m willing to bet a buck, he is the man who planned the robbery. We do know he was driving the truck, but no one noticed him at the wheel. When trouble started, he took off. What I’m wondering is… did he rat on the others or was it agreed that if trouble started, the other men should look after themselves and he should look after the money? Lewis tells me there are two and a half million dollars missing. That’s a lot of scratch. He could have been tempted to make off with it, and ditch the others.”
Beigler nodded.
“Where does that get us?” he asked, not unreasonably.
“It’s a thought.” Terrell finished his coffee, hesitated whether to refill his cup, decided not to and picked up another report. “If he has ratted on the others and we catch any of them, they could talk. I want to find No. 5 very badly.”
“We haven’t caught any of them yet…” The telephone bell rang and Beigler grimaced. “Here we go again.” He scooped up the receiver. He listened for several moments, his face hardening, then he said, “Okay, Mr. Marcus… sure, I understand. I’ll be right over. Yeah… I know where you are.” He scribbled on a pad, then he repeated, “I’ll be right over,” and hung up. He looked at Terrell who was looking at him. “That was Sam Marcus. He runs a Self-service store…”
“I know him,” Terrell said impatiently. “What about him?”
“His daughter, Jackie, was on the beach last night with a party. They were in a hurry to get home, but as Mr. and Mrs. Marcus were away for the night, Jackie stayed on for a last swim. As she was getting into her car…” Terrell listened as Beigler talked, then Beigler concluded, “Here’s the pay-off. This man was fat, elderly, whitehaired. He was wearing khaki trousers and he had a gun. It looks like Jack Perry. After the creep had raped her, she got his gun and plugged him in the belly. She ran off and he took her T.R.4… but he is wounded. Like it, Chief?”
Terrell’s face turned grim.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Marcus found her when they came home this morning. She was in shock. The doctor’s there now. As soon as she could tell the story, Marcus telephoned.”
“Okay, Joe, get over there. Make certain the girl isn’t romancing. Perry’s description has been on the air. One of her boyfriends might have laid her and she is blaming Perry. Check her story out.”
Beigler got to his feet and left the office.
Terrell continued to work for over an hour, then Beigler telephoned him.
“It’s a straight story, Chief,” he said. “It’s Perry all right. Here’s a description of the T.R.4”
Terrell made rapid notes, told Beigler to come right beck, and hung up. He grabbed another telephone and got through to the Control room. -
“Alert all doctors and hospitals that a man with a gunshot wound in the stomach may seek their help,” he said. “I want to know pronto if he does. Get it on the air. Here’s a description of a car I want traced.” He read out Beigler’s description of the T.R.4 “Keep hammering away at it. The punk’s wounded, and he won’t be far from the car.”
As he hung up, Fred Hess of the Homicide Squad came in. His fat face was lined with fatigue.
“They’ve found a young fella shot through the head on the beach, Chief,” he said. “Call just come through. Right by his side is a small truck. It matches the description of the robbery truck except it hasn’t the I.B.M. signs, but these could have been ditched. I’m going down there now.”
“Dead?”
“Sure… his brains are all over the beach.”
“Okay, Fred, get down there. I want a report as fast as you can make it. Concentrate on the truck. Dr. Lowis alerted?”
“He’s on his way now.”
Terrell nodded, then, when Hess had left, he pushed his chair away and got stiffly to his feet. He wandered around his small office, thinking.
Once again the telephone bell rang. This time it was Harry Lewis, calling from the Casino.
“Any news, Frank?”
“Plenty… I’m busy right now,” Terrell said. “I haven’t time�
�”
“That’s okay. Look, Frank, I’ve thought of something that might help. I am now certain the gang must have had inside information. The whole job was so slick. They must have known about the fuse boxes… the right time to strike… where we keep the money… the number of guards. And Frank, here is the clincher. We had a blueprint of the electrical circuit in our files and it’s missing!”
Terrell became very alert.
“So?”
“I’ll swear it’s an inside job. One of our girls - Lana Evans - who works in the vault, hasn’t reported for two days. Could be she was got at.”
“Know where she lives?”
Lewis gave Terrell the address.
“Okay, we’ll check. Thanks, Harry,” and Terrell hung up. He picked up another telephone. “Lepski in?”
“Just come in, Chief.”
“I want him.”
Charlie Tanner smiled at Lepski who was grey with fatigue and still wearing his tuxedo. He had been on the job since the robbery broke, and hadn’t had a chance to change.
“The Big White Chief needs you, Glamour boy,” Tanner said.
Lepski cursed. He was about to take a shower and change before going out again. He ran up to Terrell’s office.
“Yes, Chief?”
“What are you doing… got up like that?” Terrell asked. Lepski drew in a long breath. He suppressed all the swear words that crowded his brain.
“Just haven’t had time…”
Terrell grinned at him.
“Okay, Tom, relax. Get out of that outfit and get over to this address… fast.” He told Lepski what Lewis had said. “Could be she was bribed to give the gang information. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has skipped. Get a description of her, and we’ll get it on the air. Hurry it up!”
Twenty minutes later, Lepski, showered and shaved, climbed out of the police car outside Lana Evans’ apartment block and rang on the bell.
Mrs. Mavdick came to the door. She looked beyond him at the police car where two uniformed men were getting out, and she stiffened.
Well Now, My Pretty… Page 9