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.
Regan adjusted his spectacles and looked at Chandler as he and Wash moved past him.
"Taking the old one away. . . it's snarled up," Chandler said, sweating under the load. "They're happy now . . . so long, mister."
Regan nodded.
"So long, boy."
At this moment Mike O'Brien, the top security guard of the Casino, decided to look in at the vault. This he did every three hours, and this was to be his last visit.
He arrived out of the darkness as Chandler and Wash were loading the carton into the truck.
Maisky, sitting motionless behind the steering wheel, saw him coming, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had no means of warning the other men that a guard was approaching.
Chandler had shut one of the truck doors and was shutting the other when he felt, rather than saw, Perry stiffen.
The next second he found himself confronted by a solidly built, middle-aged man wearing the uniform of the Casino's security guards, his level, dark eyes regarding him with a hard scrutiny.
"What's going on?" O'Brien demanded.
Chandler was vaguely aware that Perry had melted into the shadows. He saw Wash, out of the corner of his eyes, take a slow step back.
Chandler was professional enough to realise this moment was his. This was the reason why Maisky had chosen him. This was why he would earn three hundred thousand dollars.
Keeping his face dead pan, his eyes slightly surprised, Chandler said, "Emergency, pal. We've just changed the calculator in the vault." He was a little uneasy to hear his voice sounded so husky. "Mr.
Lewis's orders." He slammed the other door of the truck. "My luck! What a time to have an emergency."
"Hold it!" O'Brien snapped. "Open up. I want to look in the truck."
Chandler stared fixedly at him.
"Know something, pal? I want to get home. But okay, take a look," and he opened one of the truck doors.
O'Brien peered in the dark truck.
"What's in that box?"
"The calculator . . . the one that's broken down," Chandler said, now aware that he beginning to sweat.
"You got a pass-out?" O'Brien asked.
"Why, sure . . . old man river gave it to us," Chandler said and jerked his thumb towards the glass box where Regan was watching what was going on.
"I want to see what's inside that box," O'Brien said. "Open it up."
Perry, listening, eased out his Colt .38. To the short barrel there was screwed a four-inch silencer.
Chandler felt sick. This was about to become the moment of violence he had been dreading, but without hesitation, he pulled the carton towards the end of the truck.
O'Brien moved forward. His broad back was turned to Perry. Wash, watching, felt his heart constrict. This fool! he was thinking. This conscientious fool! If he could only let the truck go!
Listening to all this, Maisky put the clutch out and gently moved into gear.
Perry lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger as O'Brien reached forward to open the carton.
The .38 slug smashed through O'Brien's rib cage and cut his heart in two. The sound of the gun was no more than the sharp clap of hands.
O'Brien fell forward as Maisky released the clutch and sent the truck shooting forward.
For a brief moment Perry remained motionless . . . a wisp of smoke drifting from his silencer, then he jerked up the gun and fired once more. The slug smashed through the door of the truck that had swung shut as the truck shot forward.
For a paralysed moment, Sid Regan watched his old friend O'Brien as he fell, then
with a reaction astonishing for a man of his age, his hand slid under the desk to where a .45 revolver had lain, gathering the rust, for several years; a gun O'Brien had given him and which Regan had treated as a joke. His horny fingers found the trigger, hooked around it and pulled with violence. The gun in the confined space went off with a nerve-shattering bang, the bullet ploughing through the wooden partition of Regan's box and whistling past Chandler so close that he felt the wind of it against his face.
As Regan fired, he rolled off his stool and out of sight behind the wooden partition.
Perry swivelled around, lifting his gun, but Chandler's tense voice halted his murderous impulse.
"Get out! Quick!" Chandler cried and, turning, he ran up the alley.
Realising in seconds he would have a mass of guards converging on the entrance to the vault, Perry followed him.
Wash, shaking with shock, moved out of the shadows and bent over O'Brien. His first thought was to see if he could help the murdered man. He turned him over. The light from the doorway fell directly on O'Brien's dead face and, shuddering, Wash straightened. This was no one he could help. He looked to right and left, hesitating. His legs were shaky. There seemed no other way of escape except up the narrow, orange-tree-lined alley. As he stared up it, Tom Lepski, gun in hand, came swiftly down. Wash stopped, hesitated, unaware he held his gun in his hand, then in a moment of panic, he plunged towards Lepski.
Lepski's gun banged once and Wash was thrown backwards. He felt a burning sensation in his chest then the stars and the big floating moon dimmed into slow, empty darkness.
* * *
Sergeant Joe Beigler suppressed a yawn, then reached for a carton of coffee that stood on his desk. He poured coffee into a paper cup, then lit a cigarette. He looked around the dimly lit Detectives' room. The only other officer on duty was Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby who was crouched over a desk, reading a book.
"What the hell are you reading?" Beigler asked. He never read anything and resented those who did.
Jacoby, the keenest officer in the City's police force, young, Jewish and good looking, glanced up.
"Assimil . . ."
Beigler blinked at him.
"Assy . . . who?"
Patiently, Jacoby explained. "It's a French course. I'm trying to learn French, Sergeant."
"French?" Beigler sat back, astounded. "What the hell for?"
"Why do you learn anything?" Jacoby asked.
Beigler considered this, then he scratched his head.
"But French . . . for Pete's sake!" Beigler's fleshy face suddenly brightened. "You reckon on going to Paris, Max?"
"I don't know. Anything's possible."
"You want to parlez with the girls . . . that it?"
Jacoby controlled a sigh.
"That's it, Sarg," he said, glad not to explain that he wanted to better himself.
"Listen, son, I've been to Paris," Beigler said seriously. "You don't have to talk French. If you want a girl, you just whistle. It's that easy. Rest your brains . . . you'll need them for your job."
"Yes, Sarg," Jacoby said and went back to the adventures of Monsieur Dupont who was ordering a coffee and making a tremendous fuss with the waiter.
At this moment, the telephone bell on Beigler's desk shrilled. Beigler scooped up the receiver with a large, hairy hand and listened to the voice that hammered against his ear drum, then he said, "Stay with it, Tom. I'll get Hess to you," and he slammed down the receiver. As he began to dial, he said without looking at Jacoby, "Call the Chief, Max. Robbery at the Casino. Two men dead," and then as Jacoby dropped his textbook and grabbed at another telephone, Beigler was already speaking to the Headquarters Control Room. "Alert all check points . . . robbery and murder at the Casino. All cars to be searched. Warning . . . these men are dangerous. Road blocks on all major and minor roads. They haven't been gone more than three minutes. Immediate action. Alert Hess." He waited only to hear the quiet, efficient voice of the controller say, "Okay, Sarg," and then he hung up.
He swivelled around in his chair and looked at Jacoby, who was just replacing his receiver.
"The Chief's coming," Jacoby said.
"Okay, Max. You stay here. I'm going down to the Casino." Beigler once again lifted the receiver. "Hess on duty?" he asked when the acting desk sergeant answered.
"Yeah. He's across the road, having a beer."
Beigler hung up, checked to see he was carrying his gun, then, struggling into his jacket, he left the Detectives' room, taking the stairs three at a time.
Four
CHIEF OF POLICE TERRELL arrived at the Casino twenty minutes after the shooting. This was pretty fast going considering he had been in bed and asleep when Jacoby had called him.
Already the Homicide Squad, under Frank Hess, was at work. Dr. Lowis, the police surgeon, with two other doctors who had been in the Casino and had come to his aid, were working on the four unconscious girls and the two guards. The bodies of Mike O'Brien and Washington Smith were being photographed. Sergeant Beigler was trying to cope with Sid Regan. The old man was still in shock, but that didn't stop him from being garrulous. What he was saying was so mixed up, Beigler had trouble in controlling his temper.
Five cars, packed with patrolmen, had arrived, and the officers were now holding back a vast crowd of people, all anxious to get a glimpse of the bodies.
Harry Lewis, white-faced but calm, greeted Terrell as he slid out of his car.
"They've got away with nearly all our cash," Lewis said. "It's a disaster, Frank. We'll have to close the Casino tomorrow."
"They may have got your cash, Harry," Terrell said quietly, "but they haven't got away . . . yet. Let me get into the picture. You take it easy," and he walked over to Lepski, who was waiting for him. "What happened, Tom?"
Briefly, Lepski told him. He had heard a shot, rushed down to the vault, met the negro, who had shown fight, so Lepski had shot him.
While Terrell was listening to Lepski's report, Beigler spotted his Chief. He said to Regan, "Okay, you relax. I'll be right back. Just stay where you are," and he hurried over to Terrell.
"Well, Joe?"
"The old guy has seen them all, but he is in shock," Beigler said. "We'll have to be patient with him, Chief. Once he has got his balance, he should be able to give us a description of all the men involved. Seems there were three of them, plus the driver of the truck, who seems to have lost his nerve or else he ratted on his pals. As soon as O'Brien started trouble, the driver took off in the truck. At least the old man has given me a description of the truck and the licence number. I've already alerted the road patrols. The truck can't get far. It hasn't a chance of getting past the road blocks."
Terrell nodded. He was thankful he had a crew he could completely rely on.
"You keep working on him, Joe. We must have a description of all the men as soon as we can and then we will get the descriptions on the air. Watch him . . . he could be our star witness. See he's protected."
"Yes, Chief."
As Beigler went back to Regan, Terrell walked down the passage to the vault.
Dr. Lowis was standing by the unconscious bodies of the four girls laid out on the floor. The other two doctors were working anxiously on Hank Jefferson. Bic Lawdry was already showing signs of coming to life.
"Well, doc?" Terrell asked, pausing in the doorway.
"The girls will be all right," Lewis said. "It was some kind of paralysing gas. The container is on the floor over there. I haven't touched it. This chap . . ." He indicated Hank, "is in a pretty bad way. He must have had a heavy dose. The other guard will be all right."
Terrell's keen eyes moved around the vault. He took a plastic bag from his pocket and very carefully rolled the empty gas cylinder into it, then he sealed the bag as Harry Lewis came in.
"My doorman tells me that a Corporation electrician was in the control room without authorisation," he said. "He tells me the man reported a breakdown . . . there wasn't one. He must have been one of the gang
."
"I'll talk to him," Terrell said. "How was it he didn't report to you?"
"It would seem my staff are having it too good," Lewis said, a bite in his voice. "This is going to cost him his job. I'll take you to him."
Beigler was talking to Sid Regan again.
"Let's skip the background build-up," he said impatiently. "What I want to know . . ." He paused as Lewis and Terrell came up the passage. "This old guy is driving me nuts," he said to Terrell. "I just can't keep him on the beam."
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