When Sam Wand had recovered consciousness, he had staggered to the police car and triggered off the alarm. Patrolmen at the Miami-Paradise road block had arrested Lolita and had taken her to headquarters. She was now in a cell, waiting to be questioned.
Around midnight, Hess walked into Terrell's office, his fat face shiny with sweat, his eyes dark ringed.
"Well, Fred? What's the news?" Terrell asked as he poured coffee into two paper cups and gave Hess one. The fat detective slumped down on a chair.
"Looks like there's only one left," he said, paused to gulp some coffee, then went on, "No. S. But there's no sign of the money. O'Connor's dead. Collon has a smashed shoulder, but he'll survive. Here's as far as we've got: the bungalow was rented by Franklin Ludovick on May 2nd last year. He's been living there up to now. He must be our No. 5. The bungalow hasn't been properly cleaned for some time and Jeff has a whale of a lot of prints. He has wired them to Washington. We expect to hear any time now. I've talked to the Agent who rented the bungalow. His description of Ludovick matches the description given us by the Lab boys: sixty-five, small, frail, sandy hair, beaky nose and grey eyes. He owns an old Buick, but the Agent can't remember its colour nor its licence number. He has pulled out. Nothing belonging to him remains in the bungalow. Looks now as if he did rat on the others. Where he is is problematic. We do know he hasn't passed the road blocks."
"All right, Fred. It's a good start," Terrell said. "Nothing yet on the truck?"
"Not so far . . . oh, yes, we've found the T.R.4. It was hidden in the sand dunes, about a mile from the bungalow."
"No sign yet of Perry?"
"It's my bet he's dead. The car is soaked in blood. No man could bleed like that and survive. They've probably buried him some place."
"Well, we are making progress." Terrell finished his coffee. "Now, we have to find No. 5."
Jacoby came in.
"Excuse me, Chief, a signal from Washington just come in."
Terrell read the signal, then looked at Hess.
"Here's our man: Serge Maisky. He spent ten years at Roxburgh jail as a dispenser. He retired April last. They're sending a photo." He laid the signal on the desk. "He's here somewhere, so we take the City to pieces. . Where he is, the money will be. Get it organised, Fred. Put on every available man. He shouldn't be all that difficult to turn up."
Hess got wearily to his feet.
"Could be famous last words, Chief. But I'll get it organised," and he left the office.
Terrell reached for the telephone. He told the police matron to have Lolita brought to his office, but he didn't get anywhere with her. She sat, stunned, white faced and silent, not answering his questions, but rocking herself to and fro in her misery. Jess Chandler had been the only man she had ever loved. His death had left her no hope in life. Finally, shrugging, Terrell sent her back to her cell.
* * *
Tom Whiteside opened his eyes and blinked up at the sky that showed blue through the canopy of trees. He looked at his wristwatch. The time was twenty after seven. He looked over at Sheila. She was asleep. For a girl who claimed she could never sleep, he thought sourly, she didn't do so badly.
He crawled out of his sleeping bag and shaved with his cordless razor, then, feeling a little more alive, he went down to the car. He got from the boot the hated gas cooker, and after a fierce struggle, got one of the burners to light. He brewed up coffee while he smoked a cigarette.
Then, carrying two steaming cups of coffee back into the glade, he stirred Sheila with his foot.
"Come on . . . come on . . . wake up," he said irritably. "Here's some coffee."
She moved, moaned, then opened her eyes. She looked sleepily up at him.
"Oh . . . you . . ."
"Yes . . . me." He dumped the cup of coffee by her side and went over to sit on his sleeping bag.
He watched her struggle out of her sleeping bag. She was wearing only bra and sky-blue panties. The sight of her as she stood up and stretched set his blood on fire. But he knew he was working himself up for nothing, and he looked away.
She went behind a bush to relieve herself, then came back, snapping the elastic of her panties.
"This I love," she said bitterly. "Crouching behind a bush! What a way to live!"
"Oh, for Pete's sake, shut up!" Tom snarled. "Can't you ever stop complaining?"
She squatted on her sleeping bag and sipped the coffee. After the first sip, she shuddered and threw the rest of the coffee into the shrubs.
"What did you put into it . . . earth?"
"What's the matter with it?" Tom demanded, glaring. He had to admit the coffee tasted like hell. Probably he hadn't waited for the water to boil, but he had made it . . . at least he had done that.
"The matter with it? Don't make me laugh!" She reached for her slacks. "What do we do now? I want to get home."
"Do you imagine you're the only one?" Tom forced himself to finish his coffee although it made him feel slightly sick. "We'll have to walk or do you want to wait here?"
"Wait here? Alone? I'm not staying here on my own!"
"Well, okay, then you'll have to walk."
"If you imagine I'm going to walk five miles you need your head examined!"
He drew in an exasperated breath.
"Make up your stupid mind! You either stay or you walk! I'm going right now."
She hesitated. At this moment the rising sun reflected on something close by that glittered. She looked at the glitter, her face puzzled, then she walked over to a high mass of dead branches and peered into the undergrowth.
"Tom! Here's a car!"
"What are you yapping about now?" Tom said impatiently. He was putting on his windcheater.
"Look . . . a car!"
Maisky was lying at the mouth of the cave. He could see them now. His shaking hand gripped his .25 automatic. There was a dull, warning pain in his chest. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the gun.
Tom joined Sheila. Pulling aside some of the dead branches, he discovered Maisky's Buick.
"What's this doing here?" he said blankly.
Sheila dragged more dead branches away. They both stared at the car, then she said, "See if it will start."
"We can't do that. Someone's hunting or something," Tom said uneasily.
"See if it will start!" Sheila screamed at him.
Tom groped in his hip pocket and brought out a set of keys. As a G.M. agent, he always carried a master key for all of their cars. He unlocked the car door, slid under the driving wheel, sank the key into the ignition lock, turned it and put his foot down on the gas pedal. The engine fired.
"Well . . . talk about luck!" Sheila said. "Come on. We'll borrow this and get home. Then you can get a new pump, come back here and fix our ruin."
"We can't do that! We could be arrested for stealing!"
"What a jerk you are! Okay, so the guy has to wait a couple of hours. So what? You can explain. You're not stealing the car . . . you're borrowing it."
Tom hesitated, but he saw the sense in this. He got out of the Buick and walked down the path, out of the glade, to where his car was parked. He found in the glove compartment a pad of paper and a ball pen. He wrote:
I have broken down so I have had to borrow your car. I'll be returning in two hours. Excuse me.
Tom Whiteside, 1123, Delpont Avenue, Paradise City.
That should keep him right with the Law, he thought as he fixed the note under his windshield. He hurried back to where Sheila was completing her toilet.
"All right," he said. "Let's go."
She regarded him with that exasperated look of contempt that had so often made him squirm.
"Oh, boy! How bright can you be! Are you going to leave all the camping equipment in the car? Suppose some bum comes along and steals it? Are you going to pay for it, Mr. Cheapie?"
Tom hadn't thought of this and it irritated him.
"Well, okay, okay." He got into the Buick and started the engine.
Maisky tried to aim
his gun at him, but in his weak, shaking hand, the gun barrel danced as if it were alive. He cursed as he lowered the gun. With murderous rage and sick frustration, he watched Tom back the Buick, turn it and then drive out of the glade.
Reaching his car, Tom pulled up. Both he and Sheila transferred all their clothes and the camping equipment on to the back seat of the
Buick. They were then left with the gas cooker which wouldn't fit into the back of the car.
"Put it in the boot," Sheila said impatiently. She got in the passenger's seat of the buick and lit a cigarette.
Tom unlocked the boot and opened it. In the boot was a big cardboard carton with the initials I.B.M. painted in black letters on its side. He wondered vaguely what it contained, but as Sheila called to him to hurry up, for God's sake, he put the cooker against the carton and slammed down the lid.
He got in the car and drove down the five-mile-long dirt road until they reached the Paradise City highway.
Sheila was relaxed now, her arm on the window frame of the car. This was the first time in months that she had been in a car that didn't rattle and showed signs of power.
"Why don't you get a better car?" she asked suddenly. "You work for these jerks. Why can't they give you something better than our stinking ruin?"
"Just rest your mouth," Tom said. "If I have anything more from you, I'll go screwy."
"Screwy? Who said you aren't already screwy?"
"Oh, will you shut up!" Tom leaned forward and snapped on the radio. Anything to keep her quiet.
A voice was saying: ". . . the Casino robbery the night before last. Four of the wanted men are now accounted for, but the fifth, believed to be the ringleader, is still at large. The police are anxious to question Serg Maisky, alias Franklin Ludovick, who they think may help them with their inquiries. The description of the wanted man is as follows: age sixty-five, slimly built, height five foot seven inches, thin, sandy-coloured hair, grey eyes. He is thought to be driving a Buick coupe. The police believe he is in possession of a large cardboard carton with the initials I.B.M. painted on its sides. This carton may contain the two and a half million dollars taken from the Casino. Anyone seeing this man is asked to notify the police immediately. Paradise City 7777."
The Buick swerved and a driver, overtaking, blasted his horn and cursed Tom as he stormed past.
"What are you doing?" Sheila demanded. "You could have had a smash," then seeing his white face, she asked sharply, "What's the matter?"
"Shut up!" Tom snapped, trying to control himself. He slowed the car, feeling cold sweat on his face. Had he heard aright? He thought of the big carton in the boot. He saw, again the initials I.B.M. painted on the box. Two and a half million dollars!
"You look as if you've swallowed a bee," Sheila said, now worried. "What is it?"
He drew in a long, slow breath.
"Turn the radio off!"
She shrugged impatiently and snapped off the radio.
"What's biting you?"
"I think this car belongs to the Casino robbers," Tom said, his voice strangled. "The money is in the boot!"
Sheila stiffened, staring at him.
"Have you gone crazy?"
"There's a carton in the boot with painted on it!"
Her eyes grew round.
"This could explain why the car was hidden," Tom went on. "What the hell are we going to do?"
"Are you sure about the carton?"
"Of course, I'm sure . . . do you think I'm blind?"
A feverish excitement took hold of Sheila. She remembered what the announcer had said: This carton may contain the two and a half million dollars taken from the Casino.
"We'll go straight home and make sure," she said.
"We'd better go to police headquarters."
"We are going home!" Her voice now was hard and shrill. "If the money is really in the boot, we're not handing it over to the police! There'll be a reward . . ."
Tom began to protest, then he saw the traffic was slowing down.
"What's going on?" he said, braking and staring at the long line of cars coming to a halt.
Sheila leaned out of the window.
"There's a road block ahead. The in-going traffic is being waved through. They are only checking the outgoing traffic." Tom drew in a long, unsteady breath.
"We'd better tell them."
"Oh, quiet down! We are going home and we are going to make certain first the money is there!"
Tom was now approaching the road block. He saw Patrol Officer Fred O'Toole waving the in-going cars through. He was friendly with O'Toole. They often played pool together in a down-town bar.
O'Toole grinned at him as he waved him through. "Got a new car, huh?" he called. "Had a good vacation?"
His white face set in a grin, Tom nodded and waved a sweating hand.
"We should have stopped and told him," he said as they continued on down the highway.
"Haven't you any guts?" Sheila said impatiently. "They are certain to offer a big reward. This is our chance, at last, to make some real money!"
"Maybe the money isn't there," Tom said, but he now began thinking of what the radio announcer had said. Two and a half million dollars! It turned his mouth dry just to think of such a sum.
"The carton's there, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, then. Let's get home, and don't drive too fast! We don't want some traffic cop . . ."
"Okay, okay, stop shouting at me! I know what I'm doing!"
"I wish you did. You look like a pregnant duck."
"Oh, shut up!"
They drove the rest of the way in silence. As they reached Delpont Avenue, Tom slowed. They drove down the long, shabby avenue, lined either side with small cabins and bungalows. The time was now half past nine. It was a good time to arrive. The owners of the cabins and bungalows had already left for work, and it was too early for the wives to go out shopping. But as Tom slowed before his bungalow, he saw Harry Dylan, his nosy next-door neighbour, watering his lawn.
"Our luck!" he muttered under his breath.
Sheila got out of the car to open the double gates that led to their garage.
"Hello there, Mrs. Whiteside," Dylan shouted and turned off the hose. "Nice to see you. Did you have a good vacation? My! You certainly have picked up a sun-tan."
Harty Dylan was short, fat and balding. He had been a bank clerk and had now retired. He was always trying to get friendly with the Whitesides, who found him a bore, Tom suspected that he was infatuated with Sheila as Dylan seldom had anything to say to him when they ran into each other alone.
"Fine, thanks, Mr. Dylan," Sheila said and ran to open the garage doors.
"I see you have a new car, Mr. Whiteside. That's a much better job than your old one. When did you get that?"
Tom nodded to him and drove into the garage.
Dylan walked along the low fence and when he reached the Whitesides' garage, he leaned over the fence.
"It's not ours," Sheila said. "We had a breakdown . . . we had to borrow this to get back home."
"A breakdown! That's tough. Where did you get to?"
"All over." Seeing Tom was closing the garage doors, she said hurriedly, "Excuse me . . . we have to unpack," and she stepped back as Tom closed the second door.
"That guy!" he said angrily.
"Come on. Open up. Let's look."
Tom unlocked the boot and lifted the hood. He took out the gas cooker and set it on the floor. Sheila leaned into the boot and caught hold of the carton. She tried to drag it towards her, but found it was too heavy to move. She spun around.
"The money's in there! I can't move it!"
Tom began to shake.
"We could get into a load of trouble . . ."
"Oh, stop it! Help me!"
He joined her, and together they dragged the carton forward. As she began opening it, there came a knocking on the garage door.
They froze, looking at each other. Then feverishly, they shoved the carton back
and closed the lid of the boot.
"Who is it?" Sheila asked breathlessly.
They walked slowly to the double doors and opened one of them. Dylan had come around the fence and grinned cheerfully at him.
"I don't want to disturb you, Mr. Whiteside, but while you were away the gas and electricity men called. I thought it neighbourly to pay the bills. Then there was a guy who said Mrs. Whiteside had ordered some cosmetics. I took in the parcel. Like to settle up now?"
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