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 half 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!
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 ve
ry 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 ques
tions?"
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.
Well Now My Pretty Page 9