"I've got the idea," she said, going with him. "It's mutual. I'm glad to see you."
* * *
Washington Smith lit another cigarette. He was sitting by the open window of his small, airless cabin at the Welcome Motel. Maisky had warned him not to -show himself until ten o'clock when he had a rendezvous at Maisky's bungalow. This, Wash accepted. No one wanted to see a shabbily dressed negro on the streets. Questions would be asked. The police would converge on him. People would stare at him in that contemptuous way only the rich whites can stare at a negro.
Mish Collins, stretched out on the bed, was examining the blueprints of the Casino's electrical wiring. He had come over in his hired car to collect Wash. They still had half an hour before they need leave for Maisky's bungalow.
"What are you going to do with your share, Mish?" Wash asked, turning away from the window.
Mish laid down the blueprint. He fed a cigarette to his lips and set fire to it.
"Well . . . three hundred thousand dollars! Yeah, it's a lump of money, isn't it? I've been making plans. I'm going to buy me a small boat. I've always wanted a boat. Nothing very elaborate, but big enough to live on. I'll find me a girl and then she and I will take a look at the Keys. I reckon that would be fun, just to keep sailing, stopping when I feel like it, changing the girl when I get bored with her, eating well. That's the life for me." He turned on his side so he could look at Wash. "How about you?"
"I've always wanted to be a doctor," Wash said. "I'll use some of the money to train. Then, with the rest of it, I'll buy a practice in New York."
"For Pete's sake!" Mish was startled. "Do you think you can make it?"
Wash nodded.
"Of course. Given the means, and if you make up your mind, there isn't anything a guy can't do."
"Yeah . . . but all that study! Jeepers! It wouldn't suit me. Don't you want a girl, Wash?"
"I want a wife and family, but that will have to wait." Wash let smoke drift down his flat nostrils. "Think we are going to get away with this, Mish?"
"Why, sure. Maisky is a real, bright boy. We'll get away with it . . . I promise you that. I wouldn't have brought you into it, Wash, if I hadn't been sure myself."
"It won't be as easy as he makes out."
"Well, okay, we can't expect it to be easy. You don't pick up three hundred thousand dollars without sweating a little."
"No."
Wash turned back to the window and Mish, after looking thoughtfully at him, picked up the blueprint, but now he found he couldn't concentrate. A doctor! he was thinking. This dinge certainly had big ideas. What the hell makes him imagine anyone would want to be treated by a little smoke like him?
Mish found himself growing resentful. He could understand a guy when he was in the money wanting a woman, a boat and lots to eat and drink, but this idea of becoming a doctor irritated him. Who the hell would want to be a goddam doctor if he had money? he asked himself. That was the point. This was something that jarred his philosophy. He knew a doctor ran around all the time, never had any peace, got night calls, sat in a dreary office listening to people moaning about themselves — jerks who would be better off dead — what an ambition for anyone to have who owned three hundred thousand dollars!
He put down the blueprint and again looked at Wash as he sat staring out of the window. Then he shook his head and shrugged. Well, the hell with it! Why should he care?
Half an hour later, the two men got out of Mish's hired car, carrying a suitcase each and walked up the narrow path that led to Maisky's bungalow. A light showed through the curtains, and the door opened immediately when Mish thumbed the bell push.
Maisky waved them in.
"I hope everything so far is well," Maisky said as he led the way into the small, shabbily furnished sitting-room. Jack Perry was already there, lounging in the only comfortable chair in the room, a cigar burning evenly between his teeth. He nodded indifferently as the two men came in.
Maisky went over to a table on which stood a bottle of Scotch, glasses and a container of ice.
"Chandler is still to come," he said, "but we can start without him."
He made two drinks after Wash had shaken his head. Mish dropped his large body into a chair that creaked under his weight. He accepted the drink, then watched Maisky hand the other drink to Perry.
"I will ask you to try on your uniforms," Maisky said. "I think they will fit. I have taken trouble with them. Then we will go through the whole plan."
A ping on the doorbell made him break off. He went to the front door and returned with Chandler, a suitcase in hand.
Chandler came into the room, nodded to the other men, set down the suitcase and accepted a drink. Watching him, Maisky realised he had been with a woman. The relaxed, satiated expression on the handsome face was enough to tell Maisky this. It didn't worry him. He was confident enough in Chandler to know that he wouldn't talk, even to a woman.
"There is one thing that is important," Maisky said, sitting on the edge of the table, "which I forgot to mention last night. When Jess and Wash get into the vault, they will find the money is packaged in five, ten, twenty, one-hundred and five-hundred-dollar bills. You two will take only the five-hundred-dollar bills. There isn't a great deal of space in the carton and we want as much money as we can get. But you must also take as many five-dollar bills as you can carry in your pockets. On this money we will have to live for three or even six weeks. I am still not sure that the five-hundred-dollar bills aren't marked. So while the heat is on, we must only spend the five-dollar bills . . . understand?"
"Marked?" This from Mish. "You think they would mark their big bills?"
"I don't know. I doubt it, but we mustn't take any chances. Until the heat has cooled off, we will not spend one single five-hundreddollar bill."
The four men nodded.
"Well, you all know the plan and you have had time to think it over. Have you any suggestions?" Maisky looked around, his head slightly on one side, his eyes probing.
"This cylinder of gas," Mish said. "I could fix a gimmick so that the gas was released when they open the carton. Would that help?"
"And what would happen to them? The gas operates in ten seconds." Maisky sounded a little impatient. "They must have their gas masks on before the gas is released."
Mish scratched his thick nose and shrugged.
"Yeah . . . well, it was an idea."
Chandler said, "Suppose we work through the whole plan? The timing has got to be exact. Why does Mish have to put the air conditioner on the blink?"
"If the temperature is too low, the gas isn't efficient. It will work, of course, but not so fast. It is essential that the room isn't cold."
"About the timing . . . aren't we cutting it fine if Mish starts operating at two-thirty?"
"That is right." Maisky slid off the table, went to a drawer and took out a sheet of paper, "I have revised the schedule. It's all here. You will each be given a copy. But before we go into that, I want you all to try on your uniforms."
Ten minutes later, Chandler, Perry and Wash had on the I.B.M. service uniforms and found no fault with them. Mish was wearing the Paradise City's Electricity Co's uniform.
"Yes, they will do very well," Maisky said after a careful inspection. "Now, I will show you the truck."
"Just a second," Chandler said. "How did you get hold of these uniforms?"
Maisky regarded him, his gentle smile in evidence.
"You are very curious, my friend. I have many contacts. A tailor who owes me a lot was happy to make them . . . you need not worry. He won't talk."
"Who cares?" Mish said enthusiastically, regarding himself in the mirror on the wall. "They are great."
"Yes . . . the fit is good," Maisky said. "Now let me show you the truck."
He led them through the kitchen and into the double garage where a small truck was parked beside his Buick. On each of its sides was a bold painted sign: red letters against a white background. It read:
I.
B.M. THE BEST CALCULATORS IN THE WORLD. WE DELIVER AND SERVICE AROUND THE CLOCK.
"You did this?" Mish asked, staring in obvious admiration.
"Yes . . . I think I can say there isn't much I can't turn my hand to," Maisky said, obviously pleased. "I have installed a gimmick on the dashboard so that with a lift of a lever, these signs can be jettisoned. We must not forget that once the robbery has been discovered, the truck will be red hot and we must get rid of these signs." He opened the double doors at the rear of the truck. Inside there was a long bench seat. "There will be room enough for you all to ride in the truck, except, of course, Mish, who will arrive and get away in his own car. There is also an arrangement by which I can change the number plates by another gimmick. The plates swivel over and new ones take their place." He demonstrated the changing of the plates while the four men watched, then with the air of a salesman, he said, "I have found a safe place, a mile from the Casino, where we will dump the truck. I will have my car there." He looked at Chandler, "I will ask you to follow me in your car tomorrow morning so that you can drive me back, after I have left my car. The sooner we get rid of the truck after we have the money, the better." He paused, looked at the four men, then asked politely, "Are there any questions?"
Chandler regarded the truck. He felt much more relaxed. The more he listened to this little man explain his plan, the more confident he became of success.
"What happens if we run into trouble at the Casino?" he asked. This was a question that was haunting him.
"What kind of trouble?" Maisky asked, raising his eyebrows. His calmness again added to Chandler's growing confidence. "I don't anticipate trouble."
"You can't say that . . . none of us knows," Chandler said sharply. "We might not get into the vault."
Maisky shrugged.
"In that case, we don't get the money . . . it's as simple as that. But I am sure you will get into the vault."
"What happens if we get the money and someone sets off the alarm?"
"No one will set off the alarm because Mish will have put it out of action."
Chandler moved uneasily. He was searching for trouble. "Suppose some guard gets nosy?"
"Then Jack will take care of him."
There was a long pause, then Chandler said, "You mean he will kill the guard?"
"Listen, buddy-boy," Perry said in his soft, giggling voice, "don't worry your gut about what happens to who. You take care of your job . . . I'll take care of mine."
"We are going to make three hundred thousand dollars each out of this operation," Maisky said. "You have to break eggs to make an omelette."
Chandler looked at Mish and Wash.
"Do you two want to get yourselves tied up in a murder rap?" he asked.
"Now, wait . . ." Maisky's voice was sharp. "I am satisfied that this operation will work. We don't have to consider violence. You are looking for trouble that doesn't exist."
"I don't want to be tied to a murder rap," Chandler said, and there was sweat on his face.
"Then what the hell are you here for?" Perry said. "Look, buddyboy, be your age. Do your job and keep your worry gut of a mouth shut."
Again there was a pause, then Chandler, thinking of all that money, suddenly shrugged.
"So, okay . . . I keep my mouth shut . . ."
Mish said, now a little uneasy, "But suppose it does turn sour? Just what do we do?"
"It won't, but I agree with you, we should know what to do," Maisky said. "Whatever happens we come back here . . . if we have the money, we split it and go on our own ways . . . if we haven't got it, we still split up, but let us make this place here, which is quite safe, a meeting place after the operation."
Chandler hesitated, but he was now committed. He wasn't too happy, and he was scared of Perry, but the thought of all that money pushed him to agree.
"Okay . . . the uniforms are fine . . . the truck is fine . . . now let's look at the schedule."
Maisky smiled.
"Of course."
He led the way back to the bungalow.
Three
THREE TIMES, during this hot Saturday morning, the telephone bell in Lana Evans' one room apartment rang continuously for several minutes. The nagging, persistent sound disturbed the Persian cat who still sat obstinately before the refrigerator, every now and then emitting a yowl of impatient indignation.
The first caller, around ten o'clock, was Terry Nicols, Lana's boyfriend. He listened to the steady, unanswered burr-burr-burr with exasperation. He knew Lana never got out of bed before ten. She couldn't still be sleeping with the telephone bell ringing like this! He wanted to make a date with her for Sunday night which was her night off. The two students who were his friends and who were waiting outside the telephone booth, kept showing him their wrist-watches through the sudty glass door. The time for the first morning's lecture was nearly due. With the exaggeration of youth, they began an elaborate count-down, and finally when they reached zero, they exploded into a pantomime of panic. Terry slammed down the receiver and raced with them across the corridor to the lecture room.
At eleven o'clock, Rita Watkins phoned from the Casino. She listened to the unanswered ring, then, frowning, a little worried, she replaced the receiver.
At one-thirty, Terry, munching a sandwich, again tried to contact Lana, then, failing again, he decided she must be on the beach, sunbathing. Irritated, he hung up. At little after two o'clock, Rita Watkins called again. Maria Wells hadn't been a success in the vault. This was understandable. The work was exacting and had to be done at high speed. Maria just hadn't the experience. Rita quailed at the thought of having her on this Saturday night when the pressure would be on. She just had to have Lana Evans back on the job.
What could have happened to the girl? she wondered as she replaced the receiver. She had a couple of hours to spare and she decided to drive over and find out for herself.
Mrs. Mavdick owned the apartment block. She was a large woman with jet-black dyed hair and an enormous floppy bosom which she held together under her soiled cotton wrap.
She regarded Rita's trim figure with disapproval. Those firm breasts, that flat stomach, the long shapely legs were to Mrs.
Mavdick the symbols of sin.
"She's on the third floor," she said. "Seen her? No . . . I've things to do. I don't see people unless they come to see me. What's the excitement about?"
"There's no excitement. I have tried to contact her on the telephone . . . she doesn't answer."
Mrs. Mavdick thumped her floppy bosom. She had difficulty in breathing.
"Well, you don't have to answer the phone, do you?"
Rita climbed the stairs and rang Lana's front-door bell. She saw a bottle of milk and a copy of the Paradise City Herald by the door. She waited, rang again, then with a feeling of frustration, she descended the stairs.
Mrs. Mavdick was still propping her gross body against her door.
"She isn't there," Rita said.
Mrs. Mavdick smirked. Her long, yellow teeth made her look like a cunning horse.
"Well . . . we're only young once," she said, fighting for her breath. "Girls like boys . . . it's not my business . . . I never worry when my folk aren't at home."
Rita regarded her with disgust and then went out into the hot sunshine to her car,
* * *
Detective 2nd Grade Tom Lepski was considered to be the toughest officer attached to the Paradise City police force. He was tall, wiry, with a lined, sun-tanned hawklike face and ice- blue eyes. He was not only tough, he was also ambitious.
At seven o'clock, he strode into the station house wearing a sharp-looking tuxedo, a blood-red bow tie and his shoes were of black reverse calf.
Charlie Tanner gaped at him.
"Well, drop me down a well!" he exclaimed. "If it isn't our Tom, got up like a goddam movie star!"
Lepski adjusted his bow tie. There was a smirk of satisfaction on his lean face.
"What's wrong with being a movie star? Let me tell you
something, Charlie . . . if Hollywood could see me now!"
Charlie Tanner paused his thick lips and made a loud, rude noise. "If Hollywood saw you now, they would give up making movies. What's the big idea?"
"You ask the Chief . . . if he wants you to know, he will tell you . . . perhaps," and with a jaunty stride, Lepski went through the charge room and up the stairs to Terrell's office.
Here Terrell and Beigler regarded him, careful not to show their startled surprise.
"Reporting, sir," Lepski said, his lean face dead pan. "I'm taking four men to the Casino right away. Any orders, sir?"
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