Meeks was flung back as the slug caught him between his eyes, scattering his brains and smashing his skull.
Harry saw a shadowy figure in the doorway. He recognized the flat peak cap and he fired wildly. The guard fired back and Harry felt the slug fan past his face. He dropped on hands and knees and tried to take cover under the aircraft.
He could see the guard as he leaned out of the aircraft. The moonlight glittered on his gun. This is it, Harry thought. He's going to nail me. He shut his eyes, squeezing himself further down in the sand.
There came the choked bang of a gun from inside the aircraft.
Harry flinched. He opened his eyes in time to see the guard drop his gun and fall forward, landing on the sand with a thud.
For a long moment Harry stared stupidly at the body of the guard, then he slowly got to his feet. Franks appeared in the doorway of the aircraft. He leaned against the doorpost. Harry could hear his laboured breathing from where he crouched.
As Harry began to move forward, Franks fired again at the guard. .
“I got him!” he panted. “I said I would. The punk went right by me. He didn't see me.”
Harry went to the guard and turned him over with his foot.
The sight of the dead, set face made him feel sick.
“Get the rocks!” Franks gasped. “I can't hold on much longer. Hurry!”
Pulling himself together, Harry climbed into the aircraft.
“I want you out there to watch that bunch,” he said. “I'll give you a hand down.”
He helped Franks on to the sand and propped him up against the wheel of the aircraft. The effort was too much for Franks.
His head dropped on to his chest and his fingers let go of his gun.
Harry looked across at the passengers. One of them was standing up.
“Sit down!” he yelled, and, raising his gun, he fired a shot over the man's head. He hurriedly sat down.
Harry shook Franks.
“Hang on! Watch them!”
Franks grunted, took hold of his gun that Harry pressed into his hand and mumbled something.
Harry scrambled into the aircraft and ran down to the galley.
He found Lewin lying in the passage, shot through the back of his head. He didn't have to turn him to know he was dead. He opened the door into the luggage bay and stepped inside. It took him a few moments to find the small, square-shaped box. When he tried to open it, he found it was locked.
Holding it under his arm, he jumped down on to the sand.
Then he ran over to where Meeks lay. He went through his pockets until he found the key of the car.
Returning to Franks he found he was now lying face down on the sand. Harry bent over him and dragged him upright. Franks was breathing heavily. He was unconscious, his arm sodden with blood.
Leaving him, Harry ran to the car, put the steel box on the front seat, got in the car and started the engine. He drove over to the aircraft. Leaving the engine running, he got out and went to Franks. He hauled him to his feet, tipped him over his shoulder and staggered with him to the car. He got him in the back, slammed the door and slid under the driving wheel.
He bad a twenty-five mile drive to Sky Ranch airport: a good, straight road, flanked on either side by sandhills. The brilliant light of the moon made his headlights unnecessary. He slammed in the gear, let in the clutch and sent the car streaking across the sand to the road.
In twenty minutes, even less, aircraft would be up and looking for him. He should have put the radio out of action, he thought, and given himself more time. He had to get to Sky Ranch airport before he was spotted on the road.
With the gas pedal flat on the boards, he sent the car racing along the road at over eighty miles an hour.
The guard was dead, he thought, his hands gripping the driving wheel until his knuckles turned white. It was murder. If they caught him he'd go to the chair. If he had known this was going to happen he wouldn't have been so crazy as to risk his life for fifty thousand dollars. When he had planned the robbery he hadn't thought it possible that it would end in murder. He had been a fool not to have asked for two hundred thousand. Delaney would probably clear two million on the deal, and he was taking no risk.
He was sitting pretty. Two million dollars!
Harry reached out and put his hand on the steel box. If only he had Delaney's facilities for getting rid of the diamonds, he thought, he wouldn't part with them. Delaney could damn well whistle for them, but they were useless to him. He wouldn't dare try to sell them. He knew no one to whom he could go.
Well, at least he was getting something out of it. Borg's threat of no diamonds, no dough, didn't apply now. His mind shifted to the paragraph in the newspaper he had read. No diamonds, no honour.
He very nearly swerved off the road. He wrenched at the wheel, straightened the car and slowed down. What a dope he was! Of course, Takamori! He might do a deal with Takamori!
Takamori had been fighting for eighteen months to get the diamonds. He was to be received by the Emperor who was going to honour him. Money meant little to a guy like that, Harry thought, but the honour did. He might ask for a million and a half. Takamori would be a fool to pass up such an offer. He'd probably never be allowed to export more diamonds. It seemed to Harry he had Takamori where he wanted him. The deal would be a tricky one, but it had a good chance of coming off. It would take nerve, but the risk was worth it. He would be gambling on Takamori wanting the diamonds so badly he would go behind the backs of the police and not give him away.
He heard Franks groan. The sound jerked him back to his present position. He was rushing towards Borg, and Borg was now the last person he wanted to run into. He slowed down and stopped the car. He hadn't much time to make a plan. In another ten minutes or so aircraft would be setting out to rescue the passengers and crew. The police would be alerted. Every road would be watched.
Dare he continue in the car? It had been standing in the shadows and none of the passengers nor the crew had gone within two hundred yards of it. They couldn't possibly give the police a description of it. He had to take the risk and keep it. Without it he was sunk.
There was Franks. . .
He turned and looked at the wounded man as he sat slumped in the back seat. Franks stared at him.
“What are you stopping for?” he mumbled. “What's the matter?”
Harry saw he still had his gun in his hand. Even though he was in a bad way, Franks could still be dangerous.
“We've got a flat,” Harry said.
Franks grunted and shut his eyes. His head lolled forward.
Leaning over the back seat, Harry grabbed at his gun. He had expected Franks' grip on the gun to be light, but instead, he found his grip like a vice. As Harry jerked at the gun it went off.
The bang and the flash stunned Harry, but he somehow kept his grip on the gun and dragged it out of Franks' hand.
Franks heaved himself up, cursing. His fist struck Harry in the face, but there was no bite in the punch.
Sweeping aside his upraised arm, Harry hit Franks on the top of his head. Franks slumped back.
Dropping the gun, Harry scrambled out of the car, opened the rear door and lugged Franks on to the sand. He tore off his trench coat, then, taking out his pocket-knife, he levered off the extra sole he had nailed to his shoe to give him a limp. He then began to strip off his disguise. In a few minutes
Harry Green had disappeared and a somewhat wild-eyed Harry Griffin had taken his place.
Rolling the disguise inside the trench coat, he carried the bundle over to a nearby sandhill. He dug feverishly with his hands until he had scooped out a hole large enough to take the bundle. When he had buried it, he stamped the sand flat, then he went back to the car. He put the steel box in the glove compartment, then slid tinder the driving wheel and drove away fast down the desert road.
III
Ten miles of furious driving brought Harry to a fork in the road. A finger post indicated to the right was Sky R
anch airport and to the left Lone Pine. Without slowing speed, he swung the car on to the left fork, and stormed up a climbing, twisting road that led over the foothills and away, from the desert.
A few miles further on, he slackened speed. Traffic was beginning to appear on the road. He didn't want to call attention to himself by driving too fast. He felt safer as he overtook the big oil trucks that were fighting their way up the steep incline. He was back in civilization, where the lone car was no longer suspect.
After he had driven another five miles, he saw ahead of him a long line of red tail-lights, and he braked, slowing to a crawl.
Ahead of him he could see at least eight cars and two trucks at a standstill. Crawling towards them, he leaned out of the car window. His heart skipped a beat when he saw there was a crash barrier across the road. A number of speed cops, lit up by the headlights of the cars, were standing behind the barrier.
He pulled up behind a truck, his mouth dry, his heart thumping. Reaching down, he groped on the floor of the car until he found Franks' gun. He wedged it between the two front seats.
Then he opened the car door and got out. He walked up to the truck in front of him. The driver, a squat, fat man, his cap pushed back off his forehead, was leaning out of his cab, staring down the road.
“What's cooking?” Harry asked.
The driver glanced at him and shrugged.
“Search me. I've been stuck like this for the past ten minutes. The bright boys are playing cops and robbers, I guess.”
A cop was coming towards them, a flashlight in his hand.
“What's biting you, pal?” the truck driver shouted. “Lost something or are you just doing this for the hell of it?”
“Button up,” the cop said. His voice sounded tough. “You'll get going in a minute.”
Harry saw the cars ahead of him were on the move now, and he returned to his car, but he didn't get in. He wanted freedom of movement if he needed it. His hand rested on the butt of his gun in his pocket. He tried to keep calm, but his nerves jangled and he felt sweat on his face. ,
The cop climbed up the side of the truck, flashed his torch into the interior, grunted and stepped down.
“Okay, get going,” he said to the truck driver.
Three more cars had pulled up behind Harry. The drivers were leaning out of their windows.
“What goes on?” one of them shouted.
“Take it easy,” the cop said. “Just wait, will you?”
He came up to Harry, swung the beam of his torch on his face.
Harry wanted to run, but he controlled the impulse. The cop flicked the light from Harry to the car. He satisfied himself there was no one in the car, then he said, “Seen two guys in a big six-seater coming this way?”
“I've seen plenty of cars,” Harry said, “but I don't remember any two guys.”
The cop grunted.
“No one remembers anything,” he said bitterly. “What beats me is why any of you've got eyes. Don't you ever use them? Okay, beat it.”
He went on to the next car.
Harry slid under the wheel, shifted into gear and drove slowly past the crash barrier. The other four cops ignored him. They stood in a group, talking.
Harry accelerated as soon as he was clear of the barrier. He sent his car shooting past the other cars, got ahead of them and on to the clear road.
He knew the cops had been looking for a fat-faced, middle-aged man with a scar on his face. He thought of Glorie: she was smart; there was no doubt about that. If she hadn't dreamed up that disguise, he would either be under arrest by now or lying by the side of the road, riddled by police bullets. He felt a wave of affection for her run through him. He would square his debt with her, he told himself. They would go to Europe and have the time of their lives. Money would be no object. She could have all the clothes she wanted—any damn thing she wanted. He would wait just long enough to make a deal with Takamori, then they'd go. If he got a million and a half out of Takamori, he could finance his own air-taxi service. He could run two kites at first, then later he'd get two more. He'd be his own boss, and that's what he had always wanted. He knew it was largely due to Glorie and her bright idea that he was in the clear. It had been tough going, but he was now getting the breaks. He squeezed a little more speed out of the car. He grinned as he imagined Borg's face while he waited at the airport. By now the news would be on the air. The chances were Borg was listening to the story of the hijack right at this moment. As the minutes ticked by, Borg would realize he had been double-crossed.
Harry's grin widened. Borg, like the police, would hunt for Harry Green. Well, let them hunt. Harry Green was buried in the sand, thirty miles away, and he would stay buried.
Twenty minutes later, driving at a reduced speed, Harry drove down Lone Pine's main street.
Lone Pine was a small, nondescript town; the houses were of wood, and there were only a few shops. The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes after eleven. Most of the houses were in darkness as he drove past. A big hoarding with an arrow painted on it showed him the way to the motel. Another five minutes brought him to the gates. He slowed down, drove through the gateway and up a dirt road until he came to the cabins. They were huddled together in a semi-circle; only three showed lights, the rest were in darkness. Five cars were parked under some trees.
The cabin furthest to the right of the others had an illuminated sign above its door that read: OFFICE.
Harry parked his car alongside a 1930 Ford, got out and walked over to the office. He pushed open the door and stepped into a small room, lighted by a naked electric light bulb that hung from the ceiling and cast sharp etched shadows.
A fat, elderly man, in shirtsleeves, stared at him as if he were someone from Mars.
“You want a cabin?” he said. “It's late.”
“I'm Harrison. My wife booked in this afternoon. What's the number of her cabin?”
“Harrison?” The fat man heaved himself out of his chair. He wandered over to a board, propped up on the mantelpiece, and stared at it. “Yeah, that's right. Mrs. Harrison. She said she was expecting you. Cabin No. 20. That's the last one on the left.”
“Thanks,” Harry said and turned to go.
“Hear about this robbery?” the fat man asked. “Been listening to it on the radio. Jaysus! These bastards will try anything once.”
Harry paused. He had to make an effort to restrain his hand creeping into his pocket for his gun.
“I haven't heard anything.”
“You'll read about it in the paper tomorrow. It'll hit the headlines all right. Hijacked an aeroplane and got away with three million bucks worth of diamonds! Killed the guard and two of the punks got killed themselves. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Hijacked an aeroplane!”
“Is that a fact?” Harry said, backing towards the door.
“I guess that guard had guts. Fought it out with them. The police are looking for a fat guy with a scar on his face and another punk who was wounded. They reckon they're heading this way.”
Harry stiffened.
“This way?”
“Yeah. They took off in a car, coming this way. They didn’t take the Sky Ranch road. There was a prowl cop out in that area and he reports no car passed him so they must be coming this way.”
“I'd better get over to my wife. She may be scared.”
The fat man nodded.
“They won't get far. One of them's badly wounded.
Harry went out into the dark night He walked quickly over to the car, took the steel box from the glove compartment and fished out Franks' gun from between the seats. He shoved the gun into his hip pocket, then walked across the grass to the last cabin on the left. A light showed in the window. He knocked on the door.
Glorie said sharply, “Who is it?”
“Harry.”
He heard her run across the room, the door was flung open, then arms were around him, hugging him.
“Hey! Let me come in,” he said. He lifted her off h
er feet and carried her into the small room and kicked the door shut.
“Oh, Harry!” she said breathlessly. “I've been frantic. I heard what happened. It's on the radio. Are you hurt?”
“I'm fine.” He tossed the steel box on to the bed. “It was tough going, kid, but I got away with it.”
“They killed the guard.”
“Yeah. It was our bad luck to have a brave fool in our hair. He killed . . .”
“Yes . . . I heard. I've been so worried.” She was clenching and unclenching her hands. “If they catch you . . .”
“For God's sate, don't start that,” Harry said sharply. “I know what they'd do to me if they caught me, but they're not going to catch me.”
He looked at her white, frightened face, the dark smudges under her eyes, the dark untidy hair, the unsmart, travel-creased costume she had on, and a little of his affection for her died.
“I'm sorry, Harry. It—it was a shock. I hoped and prayed nothing like this would happen.”
“I didn't kill the fool,” Harry said, his voice hostile. “If Franks hadn't got him, he would have got me. He was gunning for me when Franks put the blast on him.”
“They said you and another man got away. Where is he?”
Harry ran his tongue over his lips. This could be tricky, he told himself, and was suddenly irritated that he had to explain to her.
“Look, I could do with a drink. Got anything?”
“Yes. I brought some whisky. I thought . . .”
“Well, get it!”
She looked quickly at him, flinching at his tone, but she went into the inner room, came out a moment or so later with a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and a pitcher of water. Harry poured himself a four-finger shot, splashed a little water in the glass and drank half of it. He added more whisky and went over and sat on the bed. He lit a cigarette while he watched Glorie make herself a drink.
“I ditched Franks,” he said. “I had to.”
He saw her stiffen, then she turned slowly and stared at him.
He looked up, then looked away.
“You—you ditched him? He was wounded, wasn't he?”
You've Got It Coming Page 9