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I would have liked to have shaken his hand. Instead, I could only give him a casual wave.

  The evening sun was just beginning to sink behind the mountain: in another half-hour it would be dark.

  "So long, Jack."

  "So long, Mr. Jenson."

  I watched the Mercury drive off in a cloud of dust. I stood there until I had lost sight of it as it entered the foothills, then I started towards the bungalow.

  Lola was already there, waiting at the door. She looked pale and her eyes were glittering.

  "Where is it?" I said as I joined her.

  "In the sitting-room behind the sofa."

  "You'd better stay by the pumps," I said. "It'll take me a couple of hours to open."

  I saw suspicion jump into her eyes.

  "As long as that?"

  "I told you, these safes are tough. I haven't the combination. It'll take at least two hours. Get out there and take care of the pumps."

  I went into the sitting-room and looked at the safe. It was a combination job with no lock and key.

  She stood in the doorway watching me.

  "I'll get some tools. Hadn't we better shut the lunch room? You don't want a party coming in and yelling for food."

  "I've shut it," she said.

  I went past her and across to the garage. I collected some tools and put them in a big canvas bag. The bag would do to carry the money when I got at it. As I came out of the garage I saw a Packard coming fast along the desert road.

  Lola saw it too, and she left the front entrance of the bungalow and went over to the pumps. I started for the bungalow as the Packard pulled up.

  I glanced at the two men in the car and I felt a cold chill snake up my spine.

  They were cops. Although in plain clothes, there was no mistaking them: two big, hard-faced men with aggressive jaws and cold alert eyes.

  I kept going, feeling sweat break out all over me.

  A voice bawled, "Hey! You!"

  I stopped and turned.

  Both men got out of the car. Both of them were looking at me.

  Lola was staring at them. She knew what they were. She was as tense as I was.

  I walked slowly over to them, fighting down my rising panic.

  "I've got a flat," the bigger of the two said. "It's in the trunk. Fix it, will you? I don't want to go over the mountain without a spare."

  "Why, sure," I said, and taking the key he offered me I went around to the trunk and opened it.

  The other cop said to Lola, "Fill her up, sister, and how about some food while the flat's being fixed?"

  I saw Lola hesitate. She hadn't the nerve to refuse them.

  "Sandwiches okay?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Hurry it up. We're late already."

  I pulled the tyre out of the trunk and trundled it into the repair shed. It had never been off the rim and it took me twenty minutes to get it off. By then sweat was streaming off me. My escape time was running out. It took me another twenty minutes to repair the flat. While I worked the cops ate sandwiches and drank beer.

  It was ten minutes past eight by the time I had fixed the tyre and put it back into the trunk. By that time I should have been on the mountain road, heading for Tropica Springs. It looked now as if I wasn't going to make the New York train.

  As the two cops drove away, two cars, loaded with a bunch on vacation, pulled up. All of them yelled for food and wouldn't take no for an answer.

  I said to Lola, "It isn't going to work out. We'll have to some other time. I thought all along this was a cockeyed idea. The timing is wrong."

  She gave me a stony look, then went to the lunch room and opened up. The timing was wrong.

  For the next two hours we worked like galley slaves. Cars came in in a steady stream: everyone wanted food. It wasn't until ten o'clock that the traffic dropped off.

  Both of us were sweating and tired. The night was oven hot: the hottest night I had known out here.

  We stood together in the lunch room, looking around at the pile of dishes, the trays of used glasses, the ash trays crammed with butts.

  "Go and open the safe," Lola said.

  "Not tonight," I said. "It's too late. Well have to try some other time." She stared fixedly at me.

  "You heard what I said. Open the safe!"

  "He'll be back in four hours. That doesn't give me time to get away."

  She came out from behind the counter and crossed to the wall telephone.

  "You either open the safe or I'll call the police. Please yourself."

  "You said you would give me twenty-four hours!"

  "He won't know you have gone until eight o'clock tomorrow morning. He won't think to look in the safe for maybe a day or so. You have all the time you need. Go and open the safe or I'll call the police!"

  I saw she wasn't bluffing. I went back to the garage and collected the bag of tools. The time was ten minutes after ten. I couldn't hope to reach Tropica Springs now before three o'clock in the morning. There would be no train. I would have to ditch the station wagon as soon as I got into town. Jenson had only telephone the police that I had taken the station wagon for them to descend on me like a swarm of flies. I would now have to hide up in Tropica Springs until the morning. With the hair bleach and a change of clothes, I still stood a good chance.

  As I crossed over to the bungalow a truck pulled up by the pumps. I saw Lola come out of the lunch room and go over to the truck.

  I went into the sitting-room, turned on the light, pushed aside the settee that hid the safe and squatted down on my heels beside it.

  I spun the knob of the dial. It worked smoothly and that was a good sign. Then crouching forward, with my ear pressed against the cold steel of the door, I began to move the dial very gently and slowly from left to right.

  In a few seconds I heard the first tumbler drop into place. I reversed the dial and began again. There was nothing to it. You just had to know by experience when the faint sound told you the tumbler had dropped. As a safe, this one was the biggest swindle of them all.

  Six times I went through the operation, then I reached out and pulled the door open. It had taken eleven minutes by my strap watch.

  The money was there. Neatly stacked in 100-dollar bills: one hundred packets, lovingly put away for the three-year trip around the world.

  I reached for the bag, then took hold of the first pack of bills. I heard a sound behind me.

  "What in God's name are you doing, Jack?"

  Jenson's voice went through me like a sword thrust. For maybe two seconds I remained crouched before the open safe, my hand still on the stack of bills, then slowly I looked over my shoulder.

  Jenson stood in the doorway, staring at me. His expression was shocked and bewildered.

  I became vaguely aware of the roar of the truck's engine as the truck moved off. I remained crouching before the safe, unable to do anything but stare at Jenson.

  He moved his ponderous bulk into the room.

  "Jack! What do you think you're doing?"

  Slowly I stood up.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Jenson," I said. "It must look to you as if I were going to steal your money, but I wasn't. I give you my word. I know it looks like it, but you've got to believe me."

  Then Lola appeared in the doorway. She was white as a fresh fall of snow and she was shaking.

  "What's going on here?" she cried, her voice shrill. "Did he open the safe? I knew it! I warned you, Carl! I knew he wasn't to be trusted. He must have sneaked in here while I was in the kitchen!"

  Jenson didn't seem to hear her. He was still staring at me.

  "What are you doing in here, Jack?" he asked. There was real agony in his voice. It cut into me like the thong of a whip. "How you got an explanation?"

  "Yes. I've got an explanation. First, I'm not Jack Patmore: that's not my name. I'm Chet Carson. I escaped from Farnworth jail six weeks ago."

  I saw his heavy face tighten. Moving slowly, he went over to the settee and sat down.

  "I read about that.
So you're Carson . . ."

  "Yes. She saw a photograph of me in an old paper that came in the groceries box on Tuesday. She recognised me. She said if I didn't open the safe so she could steal your money she would give me to the police."

  "You liar!" Lola screamed. "Carl! Don't listen to him! He's lying! He's trying to save his rotten skin! I'm going to call the police!"

  Jenson turned slowly and stared at her.

  "I'll call the police when I want them. You keep out of this."

  "He's lying, I tell you! You don't believe him, do you?"

  "Will you be quiet!"

  She leaned against the wall. Her breasts under the white overall heaved as she tried to steady her breathing.

  To me, he said, "What else, Jack? Or isn't there anything else?"

  "I planned to take the money," I said. "I was going to clip her on the jaw and take the money to Tropica Springs. I was going to send it back to you with a letter telling you the truth. That way you would believe me and save yourself a lot of grief in the future."

  He stared fixedly at me for fully five seconds. I stared right back at him. Then he turned slowly and stared at Lola. She flinched from his probing eyes.

  "You say he is lying, Lola?"

  "Of course he's lying!"

  "Then look at me."

  But she couldn't. She tried, but every time her eyes met his, her eyes shifted. She just couldn't take that probing, steady stare.

  Slowly he got to his feet. Somehow he seemed now older and his great shoulders sagged.

  "Go to bed, Lola. I'll talk about this tomorrow. Never mind the night shift. I'll handle it. Go to bed."

  "What's going to happen to him?" she demanded. "I'm going to call the police!"

  He crossed the room and took her arms in his great hands and gave her a hard little shake.

  "Go to bed! No one is calling the police!"

  He pushed her out of the room, then he turned and went over to the settee and sat down.

  I still stood by the open safe.

  "I don't expect you to believe me," I said. "I just couldn't face going back to Farnworth so I was a sucker for her blackmail."

  "Funny how these things work out, isn't it?" he said in a low, flat voice. "The President of the Legion had a heart attack just before he left for the meeting. When I got there, the meeting was cancelled. Because a guy has a heart attack, another guy finds out he's married a tramp."

  I stiffened.

  "You mean you believe me? You don't think I'm lying?"

  He looked at me, his hands rubbing his knees.

  "I told you: I don't make mistakes about men, Jack, but it seems I do about women."

  I drew in a long, deep breath.

  "Thanks," I said. "You would have got the money back. There was no other way to save it."

  He looked at the open safe and shrugged his shoulders.

  "You'll have to go, Jack. You won't be safe here now. She'll give you away. You can be sure of that."

  "Yes."

  "I'll give you a stake and you can take the station wagon. Any idea where you'll go?"

  "New York. I can get lost there."

  "I'm going to give you thirty thousand bucks," Jenson said "With that, you'll be able to start up in business."

  I gaped at him.

  "Oh, no! I couldn't take as much as that, Mr. Jenson. Don't think I'm not grateful, but I just couldn't take it."

  "You can and you will," he said, looking directly at me. "I won't be going on this world trip alone. I don't need the money now, and you do. I've never met a guy I like better than you, Jack. You're going to take it." He looked away as he went on, "I'll miss you."

  Then I saw her.

  She had been pretty quick, for she had changed from her overall to her green dress. Her face was white and her eyes glittered. In her right hand she held a .45 revolver, and she was pointing it at us.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  For some seconds there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock on the overmantel and Lola's quick, sharp breathing.

  Jenson was staring at her and at the gun as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

  "Why, Lola . . ."

  "Don't move!" Her voice was harsh. "I'm taking the money! He's not having a nickel of it!"

  "Lola! Have you gone crazy? Put that gun down! It's loaded!"

  "Don't move and listen to me. I've had enough of this life. I've had enough of you and your convict pal! I'm going, and I'm taking that money. Don't either of you imagine you can stop me."

  Jenson's face hardened.

  "You should be ashamed of yourself—talking that way. That money was for both of us. I've slaved thirty-five years to save it and you're not walking off with it now. Put that gun down, and stop acting like a crazy fool!"

  "I'm taking it! If you try to stop me I'll tell the police you have been sheltering this jail-bird, and I'll tell them you haven't paid tax on that money! Now get out of my way or you'll be sorry!"

  Jenson, his face suddenly red with anger, got to his feet.

  I still stood by the open safe. It made me nervous to see the way she was waving the gun about as she talked.

  "It's time you were taught a lesson, young woman," Jenson said. "I've been too soft with you. What you want is a good hiding, and that's what you are going to get!"

  "Watch it!" I said sharply. I gave the safe door a hard shove with my knee. It swung to with a clang.

  Lola, her face tightening with frustrated rage, looked towards me. She knew enough about that safe to realise it had automatically locked as the door slammed shut.

  Jenson had almost reached her when the .45 went off with a bang that rattled the windows.

  I looked with horror at Jenson.

  He stood motionless for a brief moment, then his great body of muscle and flesh collapsed like a felled tree. It went down slowly and ponderously, smashing the back off a chair, sweeping aside the table and shaking the bungalow as it finally hit the floor.

  Lola screamed and dropped the gun. She hid her face in her hands, turning her back.

  Shaking, I knelt beside Jenson. Blood made a small red patch on his left side. It had been an unlucky shot. The soft-nosed .45 slug had killed him instantly.

  I couldn't believe it. I put my hand on his arm, staring at him.

  The words jerked out of me: "You've killed him!"

  She gave a shuddering groan and ran blindly out of the room.

  I heard her bedroom door slam shut.

  I knelt there, staring down at Jenson, not knowing what to do. I didn't dare call the police. Suppose she told them I had killed Jenson? She might do it to save her own skin. She might tell them who I was, and they wouldn't need any further proof once they knew I was the escaped convict from Farnworth.

  Then I heard the sudden sound of a car pulling up and the impatient blast from its horn.

  The blind in the sitting-room wasn't drawn. Whoever it was outside could see the light. If I didn't get out to them fast they might come over and look in: if they did, they would see Jenson dead on the floor.

  As I started for the door, my foot kicked against the .45. I picked it up and shoved it into my hip pocket. I jerked open the front door and started across to the pumps.

  There was a big Chrysler waiting: a deluxe job with a customs built body. A blonde woman sat in the front passenger seat. The driver, a thick-set, elderly man, was getting out of the car.

  "Fill her up," be said as I reached him, "and how about some food?"

  I was in a daze. I scarcely heard what he said. I began automatically to fill the tank.

  "Hey! Didn't you hear me?" the man said, raising his voice. "We want something to eat!"

  "Sorry—the lunch room's closed."

  I wanted to get rid of these two, but the man was one of those wealthy, arrogant big wheels you couldn't brush off.

  "Then damn well open it!" he said. "We're hungry. It's your business to provide food."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but th
e lunch room's closed," I said, screwing on the cap of the tank.

  "Do you own this joint?"

  "No."

  "Then where's the boss? I'll talk him into opening your goddamn lunch room!"