Well Now My Pretty Read online

  When Chandler arrived, the grave was half finished and Mish was panting. Chandler took the shovel and, working fast, completed the job.

  "This do?" he asked, looking up at Mish.

  "It'll have to. It's getting on," Mish said. "Come on . . . let's get him out."

  Twenty minutes later, the two men stood back and surveyed the smooth surface of the sand. Satisfied, Mish broke off several branches of a palm bush and scattered them over the now invisible grave.

  Then the two men returned to the bungalow.

  "You think she will really come or do you think she was kidding?" Mish asked as he stripped off his sweat-blackened shirt.

  "She'll come, but she won't be here until ten," Chandler said. "I'm going back to bed . . . I'm bushed."

  "Think she's heard our descriptions on the radio?"

  "She could have, but I doubt it," Chandler said. "But don't worry. She and me are like this," and he held up crossed fingers. He went into the bedroom.

  Mish took a shower. He longed for a cup of coffee. He lit his last cigarette, put on his shirt and trousers and returned to the sitting room. It took him some minutes to clean up the room. Finally, he was satisfied that there were now no telltale traces of Perry's brief stay to arouse suspicion. Then he dropped on to the settee and tried to relax.

  At half past seven, he turned on the radio to catch the news. It was then he learned of Wash's death and he grimaced. He hesitated whether to tell Chandler, but decided to let him sleep. Once again the descriptions of the three men were broadcast and, snarling, Mish turned off the radio. They were in a hell of a jam, he thought. Where was Maisky? Mish was sure he couldn't have got past the road blocks. The rat ! he thought, clenching his big fists. It was safe to bet that Maisky had this planned from the start and had found himself a safe hide-out.

  It was nearly half past ten when a shabby Mini-Cooper pulled up outside the bungalow.

  Both Chandler and Mish had been waiting at the window, screened by dirty curtains, for its arrival with growing impatience.

  As Lolita got out of the car, Mish said, "Is that her?"

  "Yes," Chandler said and got to his feet. "You go into the bedroom, Mish. I have to talk to her. This could be tricky."

  Mish regarded the girl, who was wearing skin-tight yellow Capri pants and a scarlet halter. Her sun-tanned skin, her shape, her glistening black hair and her lean, alert face made an impact on him. Some bim! he thought, as he moved quickly down the passage and into the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Chandler went to the front door and opened it as Lolita started up the path. She paused, looked searchingly at him, then frowned. Chandler wasn't looking at his best. Unshaven, sweaty, his face tight with tension, he presented a picture that slightly frightened the girl.

  "Hello, baby," he said. "Gee! Am I glad to see you!" He came down the path and joined her, putting his big hands on her arms.

  "Sorry I look such a mess . . . no nothing in this goddam place. Did you bring the stuff I asked for?"

  She looked up at him.

  "It's all in the car. What's going on, Jess? Is this your place?"

  "Let's get the stuff inside, then we can talk," Chandler said. "Look, baby, will you put the car in the garage?"

  He walked to the car and took from it two loaded shopping baskets.

  "I'll leave it here, Jess. I can't stay long."

  "Better get it out of sight, baby," Chandler said, an edge to his voice. "I'll explain in a moment," and he went into the bungalow, carrying the baskets.

  She hesitated, then shrugged. She got in the car and drove it into the garage. She got out, closed the garage doors and walked quickly to the entrance to the bungalow. She entered.

  "I'm in here, baby," Chandler said, from the kitchen.

  She joined him.

  He was busy unpacking the baskets.

  "Sweetheart, will you make coffee . . . I'll flip my lid if I don't have some coffee." He found a safety razor and brushless cream. "I'll get shaved. Then we can talk."

  "All right, Jess," she said and put on the kettle.

  When Chandler had shaved, he went into the bedroom and gave Mish the razor and cream.

  "I'll call you in five minutes," he said softly, then returned to the kitchen.

  Lolita was pouring coffee into a cup.

  "That smells good," Chandler said, taking the cup. He spooned in sugar. "No, I'll take it black." He sipped, sighed, sipped again, then picked up a pack of cigarettes she had brought, broke it open and lit a cigarette.

  "What's going on, Jess?"

  "Cop trouble," Chandler said quietly. "Me and a pal of mine are in one hell of a jam. Don't ask questions, baby. The less you know the safer for you."

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, then, resting her hips against the edge of the table, she asked, "Is it the Casino job?"

  Chandler hesitated, then nodded.

  "That's it. It turned sour. The guy who planned it ratted on us. Did you pick it up on the radio?"

  "Yes. I guessed it was you." She shook her head. "What are you going to do?"

  "You guessed it was me . . . and yet you came?" Chandler said, studying her.

  "I was born stupid," she said, giving him a half-smile. "I guess I am a little crazy about you, Jess."

  He put down his cup of coffee and went to her, putting his arms around her, drawing her close to him.

  "You won't regret it," he said, and kissed her.

  She clung to him for a long moment, then pushed him gently away.

  "What does that mean, Jess? Don't let your coffee get cold."

  "There's still a chance we could find this guy who ratted on us," Chandler said. "He has the money. If we find him, then you and I will go off and take a look at the world together."

  "Yes?" She smiled at him. "All my life I've been dreaming about looking at the world. Don't let's count on it, You hungry?"

  "I know I am," Mish said from the door.

  She looked swiftly at him, then at Chandler.

  "This is my pal, Mish Collins," Chandler said. "Come in and have some coffee . . . it's good. This is Lolita."

  Mish offered a damp hand.

  "I always said Jess could pick 'em," he said, shaking hands. "You said something about being hungry?"

  "Just the two of you?" Lolita asked, smiling at Mish.

  "Just the two of us."

  "Ham and eggs?"

  "Oh, boy!"

  "Give me some room. Suppose you leave me to fix it? I won't be long."

  "Sure," Chandler said and moved with Mish, a cup of coffee in his hand, out of the kitchen and into the sitting-room.

  "She knows?" Mish asked as soon as they had closed the door. Chandler nodded.

  "There'll be a reward offered," Mish said. "A big one."

  "I know."

  The two men looked at each other.

  "Think you can trust her?" Mish asked.

  "We haven't much choice, have we?" Chandler wandered to the window and looked out. "We have to have food if we are going to stay here. She's our only outside link. Maybe they won't be in a hurry to offer a reward."

  Mish sat in an easy chair. He began sipping the hot coffee. "I didn't tell you . . . Wash got shot . . . he's dead."

  Chandler didn't look around. He hunched his shoulders.

  "It looked pretty good the way that bastard rat laid it out for us like a pretty dream. Well, maybe we will still find him," he said.

  "Think so?" Mish lit a cigarette from Chandler's pack. "I wouldn't bet on it. He's a brass boy and cute. I think we have kissed him and the money goodbye."

  Chandler shrugged. He continued to stare out of the window for some minutes, then turning, he abruptly left the room and walked into the kitchen.

  Lolita was standing over the fry pan, watching six eggs setting in the pan.

  "I've been thinking," Chandler said, coming to stand by her side. "I shouldn't have brought you into this. If they catch up with us and find you here, you could go away as an acces
sory."

  "I know I'm stupid," Lolita said, "but not that stupid. I've thought of that. You don't have to worry about me, Jess. I told you . . . I'm a little crazy about you. You can't stay here without me, can you?"

  "That's right."

  She smiled at him.

  "Well, then . . ."

  He leaned forward and kissed the side of her neck.

  "I'll make it up to you, baby."

  She began serving up the eggs and the ham.

  "I'd better move in, hadn't I?" she said, handing him the plates. "If anyone came here, you couldn't go to the door, could you? While you are eating, I'll drive back to my place and pack a bag. There are a few other things we need. Have you any money?"

  He put down the plates, took out the roll of $5 bills and gave her ten of them.

  "You're sticking your neck out, baby," he said, wondering a little uneasily if he would see her again.

  "It's my neck." She patted his arm. "I won't be long," and moving past him, she went down the passage and out through the front door.

  Chandler carried the two plates into the sitting-room. Mish was at the window, watching Lolita as she drove away.

  "Come and eat," Chandler said.

  "She leaving?"

  "She's coming back. She's getting her things . . . she's moving in.

  "Want to bet on it?" Mish drew up a chair and sat down. "She's coming back."

  The two men ate hungrily, then Mish said suddenly, "I'm not kidding myself, Jess. We're not going to get away with this caper."

  Chandler cut into his second egg.

  "The odds are long, but we still have a chance."

  "I'm not going back to jail." Mish dipped a piece of ham into his egg yolk. "I've had enough of jail."

  "Don't worry," Chandler said. "You won't go back to jail.

  You'll go to the gas chamber . . . so will I. This is a murder rap."

  "Yeah . . . well, they won't take me alive. I don't know about you. I'd rather have a quick bullet than weeks in the Death House."

  "Suppose you shut up?" Chandler said. "I want to enjoy this." Mish suddenly grinned.

  "She can cook, can't she? Think she's talking to a cop right now?"

  Chandler pushed away his empty plate.

  "Want some coffee?"

  "I never say no to coffee."

  Chandler went into the kitchen. Mish rubbed the back of his neck, reached for the pack of cigarettes, shook a cigarette out and lit it.

  He was staring into space, wondering what eventually would become of him, his eyes bleak and lost, when Chandler came back with the coffee.

  Six

  THE SKY was turning a vivid crimson as the sun sank behind the foothills. Tom Whiteside glanced at his wrist-watch. The time was eighteen minutes after eight.

  "We'll use the dirt road," he said. "It'll save ten miles. We should be home in another hour."

  Sheila Whiteside said nothing. She had been sulking now for the past hour, ever since they had had the row about the gold watch she wanted as her first wedding anniversary present. As Whiteside had pointed out, the watch cost $180, and where was he going to find that kind of money?

  He glanced at her, then away. He was feeling depressed. What a vacation! he thought. He had had an idea that he was asking for trouble when he had insisted that they should go camping. Camping, for God's sake! But how else could they have afforded to spend two weeks away from home? They certainly couldn't have afforded a hotel or even a cheap motel. He had borrowed the camping equipment from a friend for free. It was a pretty good outfit with a fair-sized tent, cooking equipment and sleeping bags. But what a fiasco that had turned out to be! Sheila had stuck her toes in and had refused to cook. This was her vacation, she had declared. If they couldn't afford a hotel, then he could do the cooking. He could run the camp. She was going to sunbathe and do nothing.

  Tom squirmed at the memory of those past two weeks. He hadn't been able to master the Calor gas cooker. The food was either burnt or undercooked. Sheila had lazed in the sun, wearing the skimpiest bikini, and the constant sight of her near nakedness had tried Tom almost beyond endurance.

  He recalled with frustration they hadn't made love during the whole of those fourteen days. Several times he had made advances during the day, but this was something Sheila just wouldn't tolerate. Then at night she got into her sleeping bag, and how the hell was a man to go into action when his wife was in a sleeping bag? Yet he had to endure the sight of her going around looking like an erotic dream, deliberately showing herself off, until there were times when he was fit to climb a tree.

  How was it possible, he was continually asking himself, that a girl with such a body, with such beauty, could be so utterly frigid? What a trap! To look at her, you would think . . . as all his friends thought . . . she was hotter than a redhot stove. She was tall, broad shouldered with large, firm breasts, a narrow waist, solid hips and long, lovely legs. She had natural ash- blonde hair, violet eyes fringed with thick eyelashes, a wide, beautiful mouth, splendid teeth and high cheekbones. There were times, when her eyes were alive and her lips curved into an inviting smile, that she could pass for Marilyn Monroe's sister.

  Since he had been so lucky to have married a girl with her looks and her body and that inviting smile, he naturally expected a sexual appetite to go along with the other assets, but here he had been painfully wrong. The sexual act meant less to Sheila than blowing her beautiful nose in a Kleenex.

  As Tom coaxed his 1959 Corvette Sting Ray along the Miami highway, aware that there was no pull in the engine and the compression was getting flabbier with every mile he drove, he thought back to the time — fourteen months ago — when he had first met Sheila.

  Tom had reached the age of thirty-two without finding success. He was a commission-only salesman working for General Motors branch in Paradise City. Tall, heavily built, dark, with pleasant, rather ordinary features, he had been struggling ever since he had left school to get into the high-income bracket he was sure his talents deserved. The trouble, of course, he was constantly telling himself and his friends, was that he lacked capital. With capital, a guy with his ideas couldn't fail to hit the jackpot, but without capital well what, could you do?

  But the real trouble with Tom was that he lacked drive. He was a dreamer. He dreamed of riches, but he hadn't the energy or the ability to make money.

  Had it not been for his father, Dr. John Whiteside, now dead, Tom would be out of a job. But some years ago, Dr. Whiteside had saved the life of Claude Locking's wife. This was something Locking, who was the manager of General Motors, could not forget. Because he was grateful to the memory of Dr. Whiteside, he tolerated his inefficient son.

  Fourteen months ago, Tom had delivered a Cadillac, Fleetwood Brougham to a rich client who lived in Miami, taking the client's Oldsmobile Sedan in part exchange.

  Tom had driven the Sedan back to Paradise City, feeling pretty good as he sat the wheel. This was the kind of car he should own, he told himself, instead of the crummy Sting Ray that was just about falling apart.

  The run from Miami was hot and long, and he had decided, since he had made a good commission on the sale of the Brougham, that he would stop off at a motel for the night, have a decent dinner, get a good night's rest and then go on to Paradise City in the morning.

  He pulled into the Welcome Motel around nine o'clock, parking the Sedan in one of the bays. After dinner, he went to his cabin, took a shower and went to bed.

  He was tired, relaxed and well fed. He looked forward to a good night's rest, but as he turned off the light, a radio in the cabin next door started up, sending strident swing music through the thin partition and bringing him wide awake.

  He lay in bed, cursing the noise for some twenty minutes, hoping that the radio would be turned off. A little after eleven o'clock with the noise still tormenting him, he put on the light, struggled into his dressing-gown and banged on the door of the adjacent cabin.

  There was a pause, then the door opened and he fou
nd himself face to face with the most intriguingly beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  Tom often thought of his first meeting with his future wife. She was wearing a light blue wool sweater that emphasised her firm, overdeveloped bust. Her short black skirt seemed to be painted on her. Her long legs were bare and her narrow feet were in cork-soled sandals.