"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.
"Miss Evans live here?" Lepski asked.
"That's right. What of it?"
"I want to see her."
"She's out." Mrs. Mavdick thumped her floppy bosom and breathed cac
hou-scented breath into Lepski's face. "Besides, I don't like police here . . . gives my house a bad name."
"Look, sister, relax with the mouth," Lepski said in his cop voice. "You have us here. Where is she?"
The beady, black eyes became interested and cunning.
"Is she in trouble?"
"Could be. Where is she?"
"I don't know. I can't be expected . . ."
Lepski turned and beckoned to one of the police officers.
"We'll go up and see," he said.
"Oh, no, you don't. I don't have cops in my house." Mrs. Mavdick planted herself firmly in the doorway.
Lepski made it his business to know everyone who passed through the local courts. He had a photographic memory, and he remembered Mrs. Mavdick. He grinned evilly at her.
"Been doing any shoplifting recently, Ma?" he asked. "Let's see . . . it was last August, wasn't it? You got away with a $25 fine. Are you looking for more trouble?"
Mrs. Mavdick gasped, stepped back, then, pausing for a moment to gather her floppy dignity around her, she went into her room and slammed the door.
Lepski and the police officer climbed the stairs until they came to Lana Evans' apartment. The three bottles of milk and the three copies of the Paradise City Herald by the door made them exchange glances. Lepski knocked, tried the door, found it locked, then stepped back and drove his shoulder against one of the panels. The door wasn't built to withstand such treatment.
They found Lana Evans lying on the floor. She had been dead now for the past two days.
The black Persian cat was at the window. Seeing Lepski, it jumped down off the window sill and hurried towards the refrigerator,
* * *
An hour later, Lepski brought Terry Nicols into the Chief's office. The youth looked white and shocked, and after regarding him steadily for a moment or so, Terrell waved him to a chair.
"I won't keep you long, Terry," he said. "Sit down. Want a cigarette?"
Nicols shook his head.
"Miss Evans was your fiancée?"
"Yes."
"Were you planning to get married soon?"
"We hadn't the money to get married," Nicols said bitterly. "We were trying to save five hundred dollars to fit out a walk-up apartment. We didn't reckon we could save that amount under two years." He shrugged. "Well, it doesn't matter now."
Terrell lifted up a newspaper that concealed the money Lepski had found in Lana's drawer.
"This money was found in her room, Terry. Know anything about it?"
Nicols licked his lips, a sudden sick look in his eyes.
"You really mean you found all that money in her room?"
Terrell nodded.
"No . . . I know nothing about it. I don't understand." Quickly, Terrell explained his suspicions.
"I think she was got at, Terry. She wanted to marry you and she swallowed the bait. This money bought the way into the Casino's vault. She was in the position to give all the necessary information . . . and she got paid."
Nicols didn't say anything. His stricken face showed his feelings.
"Okay, let's assume that happened. We want to find the man who corrupted her . . . he not only corrupted her, but when he got the information he wanted, he murdered her. We want to find this man. Can you help us?"
"No . . . I know nothing about any man. Lana never told me."
"She never mentioned some man who had befriended her?"
"No."
"She never made an excuse not to see you? Some other date?"
"No. I was at night school every night. We met in the morning on the beach. In the afternoon, I was helping out, delivering for a grocery store. I don't know what she did with herself in the afternoons."
Terrell kept at it, asking question after question, but he didn't get any nearer to No. 5 as he was now calling him.
Finally, he took from his desk drawer the jar of Diana hand cream that Maisky had given Lana.
"Know anything about this, Terry? Did you give it to her?"
"No . . . what is it?"
"A hand cream . . . cost $20 a jar. Not the sort of thing, I imagine, Lana would have bought herself. I was wondering if you had given it to her as a special present."
"Neither of us would think of paying $20 for a hand cream," Nicols said, and he looked genuinely shocked.
When he had gone, Terrell put the jar into a plastic bag and called in Max Jacoby.
"Take this down to the Lab boys right away. I want everything they can tell me about it."
As Jacoby was leaving, Hess came bustling in.
"It's the truck all right. We picked up the two I.B.M. signs on a side road," he said, coming to rest at Terrell's desk. "The shot boy was Ernie Leadbeater, a student. At least, we now have something on No. 5. We have clear footprints, and the lab boys are working on them. We know he had a car parked at the murder spot. He drove the truck there, transferred the money to the other car, and it's my bet, as he was leaving, Leadbeater surprised him and got shot. We have casts of the car's tyres. They are pretty old, and the off-side one has lost its tread . . . enough to be able to identify it if ever we catch up with the car."
"How about the truck? Any prints?"
"Yeah, but all belonging to the other men. No. 5 wore gloves. The steering wheel is clean."
He took from a plastic bag three $500 bills.
"These were picked up near the truck."
Terrell took them.
"See if you can trace the truck, Fred. Put as many men as you want on to it. It's a top priority."
Hess went off and Terrell sent the bills down to the lab boys. A couple of hours later, Church, the head of the lab, called Terrell
"I'm sending you a detailed report, Chief, but while it is being typed, I thought I'd fill you in to save time. First of all that hand cream is loaded with an absorbent compound of arsenic. It is one hundred per cent lethal. No fingerprints on the jar except hers."
"Wait a second," Terrell said, his eyes narrowing. "How could any ordinary person make up a compound like that?"
"The answer to that one is they couldn't. It's the work of a technician: either someone in the pharmacy trade or possibly a medical man."
Terrell made notes.
"I've given you all the dope," Church went on. "There was a lot of arsenic used and whoever made the ointment must have had access to a large amount, which again points to a dispenser. The casts of the footprints give us some interesting information. This man is slightly built, weighs around one hundred and twelve pounds, walks a little pigeon toed, and is not young . . . between fifty and sixty . . . that kind of age. He had an awful struggle to get the carton out of the truck so I could describe him as frail. That any help?"
"Fine . . . anything else?"
"Those $500 bills you sent over. They are all marked with an invisible ink that shows up under infra-red. I talked to Harry Lewis and he tells me he had one thousand of those bills marked as an experiment. They're all missing . . . so if your man starts spending, we could catch up with him."
"This is more like it," Terrell said. "Looks, at last, we are getting a break."
"The boy was shot with a .25 automatic . . . the kind of gun I'd expect No. 5 to carry. He's certainly a careful bird. No fingerprints anywhere. He must have always operated in gloves."
"Get that report over fast," Terrell said, "and thanks."
* * *
Jack Perry died without gaining consciousness a little after seven o'clock a.m. Mish, who had been watching him uneasily for the past hour, saw his jaw go slack and he grimaced. He got stiffly to his feet, rubbing his hand over his sweating face. He touched Perry's pulse, then, satisfied that he was dead, he walked down the passage to the back bedroom where Chandler lay stretched on the bed, sleeping. He shook him awake.
Muttering, Chandler opened his eyes, then, seeing Mish, he abruptly sat up.
"He's gone," Mish said. "Come on . . . we've got to bury him pronto."
Chandler swung his legs off the bed.
He was wearing shirt and trousers and he groaned softly as he wedged his feet into his shoes. "Where?"
"Right outside. The sand's soft," Mish said. "It's still early. With luck, we'll get away with it, but we have to hurry it up."
Leaving Chandler with his head under the cold-water tap, Mish left the bungalow and entered the garage. There he found a longhandled shovel. Carrying it out of the garage, his feet sinking into the soft sand, he found a spot near a palm tree and began to dig.
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