1958 - The World in My Pocket Read online

  ‘Never mind. You get moving. Have a good honeymoon.’ He looked at Kitson and winked. ‘I bet you do. Move on, bud.’

  Kitson sent the car forward and a moment later they were through the road block and heading down the open road.

  ‘Phew!’ Kitson gasped, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. ‘The way you handled that guy!’

  Ginny adjusted her skirt, covering her knees and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

  ‘Give a man something to look at, and he’s just another sucker,’ she said. She opened her handbag and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  She lit the cigarette and gave it to him. There was a smear of lipstick on it, and it gave him an odd satisfaction to know her lips had touched the cigarette before his.

  She lit another cigarette for herself.

  For the next ten miles they drove in silence, then Ginny said, ‘You take the first on your right. It’s the road that leads to Fawn Lake.’

  Kitson nodded. As he looked ahead, he caught sight of a hover-plane coming towards them, flying not more than three hundred feet above the road.

  ‘Look at that!’

  The hover-plane went over the Buick and the caravan with a violent swish of wind.

  Ginny said, ‘They’ve moved into action fast enough.’

  She looked at her watch. The time was ten minutes after midday. Although only forty-five minutes had elapsed since they had stopped the truck, it seemed to her like a lifetime.

  Morgan, Gypo and Bleck also heard the swish of wind from the hover-plane as it passed over them and Gypo cringed down. He knew instinctively the machine was looking for them. While they had crawled through the road block, the three men had crouched on the floor. Morgan had his gun in his hand, determined to shoot it out with any cop who tried to get into the caravan.

  They all relaxed as they felt the Buick pick up speed. Morgan opened his coat and looked at the pad Ginny had put on his wound. It was saturated with blood and the wound was obviously bleeding again.

  Anxious to ingratiate himself once more with Morgan, Bleck got to his feet. Stepping over Gypo’s body, he went to one of the bunks and took out the first-aid kit that Morgan had insisted on taking along with them.

  ‘I’ll fix it for you, Frank,’ he said.

  Morgan was feeling faint. He was alarmed at the amount of blood he had lost. He nodded, bracing himself against the side of the caravan.

  Gypo stared at him with horror, thinking: If Frank goes, what are we going to do? There’s no one like him for handling a tough situation. We’ll be sunk if he dies.

  Bleck squatted down beside Morgan and got to work. After some minutes he got a pad on that stopped the bleeding.

  ‘You’ll be okay now,’ he said and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘How about a drink?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Morgan said bitterly. ‘You have every reason to celebrate.’

  Bleck made three stiff whiskies and handed the glasses around.

  As they were drinking, they felt the Buick swing off the highway and immediately the caravan began to bump and sway as its two wheels bounced over the surface of the dirt road. The three men hastily finished their drinks. Morgan’s mouth drew down into a hard line of pain as he was jerked about on the floor of the caravan.

  After a while the Buick slowed down, then finally stopped.

  There was a pause, then the back of the caravan swung up and Ginny and Kitson looked in.

  ‘All right?’ Kitson asked anxiously. He was shocked to see how white Morgan was.

  Morgan looked beyond Kitson and saw they had pulled off the road and were in the shadow of a fir forest. The road, about thirty feet away, was deserted. It twisted up hill, leading, after a six-mile run, directly to Fawn Lake.

  Overhead, they could hear the drone of aircraft, a sound that warned Morgan of the danger of remaining here.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ he said to Kitson and jerked his thumb towards the truck. ‘We’ve got to take him. This is as good a place as any. Shut the caravan and leave it to us. You take the wheel off the Buick as if you’ve got a flat. If you see a car coming, bang on the side of the caravan. Ginny, you sit by the edge of the road. Take the food basket. Act like you’re preparing a picnic. Get moving.’

  His face set, Bleck handed out the food basket.

  Kitson looked shocked.

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ he asked.

  Morgan’s mouth moved into a ruthless smile.

  ‘What do you think? Shut the caravan and do what I say!’

  ‘Wait!’ Gypo said, his voice shrill. ‘I’m getting out of here! I’m not having anything to do with this! This isn’t my job! I’m here to open the truck.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Morgan snarled and his gun jumped into his hand, threatening Gypo. ‘You’re opening that goddamn shutter! You do what I say or I’ll damn well kill you!’

  The expression on his face terrified Gypo.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that to me, Frank!’ His hands waved imploringly. ‘Let me out of here!’

  Morgan looked at Kitson.

  ‘Do what I tell you! Shut the caravan and work on that wheel!’

  Pale and shaky, Kitson shut the back of the caravan. He was breathing hard and fast as he opened the trunk of the Buick and took out the jack.

  Morgan was saying to Gypo in a flat, deadly voice, ‘Listen, Gypo, from now on you start to earn your share of the loot. You’ve had it soft up to now, but from now on, it’s going to be rugged, so make up your mind to it! Get that goddamn shutter open!’

  His breath whistling through his nose, Gypo approached the shutter and stared at it.

  Bleck watched him, his eyes flickering from Gypo to Morgan and back to Gypo again.

  Gypo saw the shutter wasn’t difficult. It didn’t fit tightly: it wasn’t in the same class as the door at the back of the truck.

  Morgan was also quick to see that.

  ‘Get a tyre lever and a hammer,’ he said. ‘We can bust this one.’

  Gypo flinched. He was thinking of the moment when he had prised open the shutter.

  ‘That guy in there will be waiting,’ he said hoarsely. ‘As soon as he sees me, he’ll shoot me.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ Morgan snarled.

  Gypo opened the tool cupboard, took a tyre lever and a hammer from one of the racks. His hands were shaking so badly he could scarcely hold the tools.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Morgan shouted furiously. ‘What’s scaring you, you fat jelly?’

  ‘If he shoots me, who’ll open the truck?’ Gypo panted, playing his trump card.

  Morgan drew in a long, exasperated breath.

  ‘Give me the tools, you creep!’ he snarled. ‘But I’ll fix you and I’ll fix your pal, Ed, too! If you two imagine you’re going to get your full share, you’ve another think coming!’

  Right at that moment Gypo would have gladly given up the whole of his share if he could have been transported from this horrifying caravan to his little shed he called his home. He backed away as Morgan snatched the tools out of his hand.

  Holding the end of the tyre lever against the gap between the steel shutter and the window, he hammered it home. The lever sank between the frame and the shutter, forcing the shutter back slightly.

  Morgan continued to hammer until he had driven four inches of the lever out of sight, then he dropped the hammer and looked at Bleck.

  ‘You going to be yellow too?’ he said.

  Bleck pulled his .38 from his shoulder holster and moved up close to Morgan.

  ‘When you are ready, I am,’ he said, his face set, his eyes determined.

  Morgan grinned crookedly at him. ‘Trying to save your share?’

  ‘Skip it, Frank. Go ahead. I’m ready to take him.’

  As Morgan was about to throw his weight on the lever, there came three quick thumps on the side of the caravan that stopped him dead.

 
; ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said. ‘Hold it!’

  Bleck moved to the window and peered through the curtain. A car, towing a caravan, had stopped within a few yards of where Ginny was sitting by the side of the road. A middle-aged man whose jolly fat face was burned red by the sun, was getting out of the car. There was a woman and a young boy in the car, looking towards the Buick and the caravan.

  Bleck heard the fat man say, ‘Hey, miss, can I help? Looks like you’ve got a flat.’

  Ginny smiled at him.

  ‘It’s all right, thank you. My husband can manage. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘You’re going up to Fawn Lake?’ the man asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So are we. I was there last summer. Have you been there before?’

  Ginny shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll like it. It’s terrific, and they know how to treat you. My name’s Fred Bradford. That’s my wife, Millie and Fred junior, my kid. You got any kids?’

  Ginny laughed.

  Listening to this, Bleck marvelled that her laugh sounded so natural.

  ‘Well, no, not yet,’ she said. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

  Bradford smacked his thigh. His good-natured laugh grated on the ears of the listening men.

  ‘Say! That’s a good one! Hear that, Millie! They’re on their honeymoon, and big mouth has to ask if they’ve got any kids.’

  The woman in the car frowned disapprovingly.

  ‘Come on, Fred,’ she called sharply. ‘You’re embarrassing the lady.’

  ‘Yes, I guess I am,’ Bradford said, grinning. ‘Excuse me, Mrs . . e r . did I get your name?’

  ‘Harrison,’ Ginny said. ‘I’m sorry my husband is so busy.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Well, maybe we’ll see more of you both,’ Bradford said. ‘Anyway, if we don’t, a happy honeymoon.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ginny said.

  The man went back to his car, got in and waved; then he drove on up the road.

  Morgan and Bleck exchanged uneasy glances.

  ‘If this punk starts shooting,’ Bleck said, ‘they’ll hear the shot.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Morgan said, feeling too bad to care. ‘They must hunt in these woods. They’ll think it’s some guy after game.’ He took hold of the tyre lever. ‘Come on! Let’s take him!’

  Kitson called through the window.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Morgan paused to lift the window an inch.

  ‘Stay right where you are,’ he said. ‘Just warn us if anyone else comes. We’re going to take him now.’

  Kitson backed away, feeling suddenly sick.

  Morgan shut the window and nodded at Bleck.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  As Morgan pulled down on the tyre lever, Gypo hid his face in his hands.

  II

  Dave Thomas, the driver of the truck, lay on the floor of the truck, suffering the agony of his shattered jaw with the stoic courage of the undefeated.

  Morgan’s bullet had passed through the lower part of his face, smashing the jaw bone and cutting a furrow across his tongue. The pain and shock had caused him to go off in a long faint, and it was some time before he came to. He was immediately aware that he was bleeding badly.

  He lay only half aware what had happened, and wondering how it was possible for the truck to be moving and yet no one driving it.

  He didn’t think he had very long to live. No one could lose the amount of blood he was losing and survive, but dying didn’t frighten him. He was sure that if a miracle did happen and he did live, there wasn’t much they could do about his injuries. He had no wish to go around looking like a freak and perhaps not being able to speak.

  What held his concentrated interest was the jolting movement of the truck. He decided finally, and after some thought, that they must have got the truck into some kind of vehicle, and he thought this was a pretty smart move, but not smart enough. He had only to press down the switch on the radio set to send out a continuous signal that would home the police on to the truck, no matter how cleverly hidden it was.

  This was something he felt he should do right away, but the radio set was immediately behind and above him and, to get at it, he would have to turn on his side and reach up with his arm above his head.

  He knew if he moved over on his side, he would inflict pain on himself when, by lying still, the pain was at least bearable. So he lay very still, his eyes closed, and he thought about the lean, wolfish face of the man who had shot him. He wondered who the man was. The girl in the sports car was also in it. The whole plan had been pretty smart. That smash had looked convincing, and he was glad that Mike Dirkson, the guard, hadn’t been stampeded and had called the Agency and had reported the smash, otherwise the Agency might think they had been taken for a pair of suckers. At least they had had the Agency’s permission to investigate, not that that had done them any good then or now.

  To think a kid as pretty as that girl, Thomas thought drowsily, could have got mixed up in such a desperate business. She reminded him a little of Carrie, his thirteen-year old daughter.

  Carrie had the same coloured hair, but she wasn’t anything like as pretty as this girl, although she might grow up to be a beauty. One never knew about those things: it was just a matter of luck.

  His daughter had always admired him, calling him her hero. She was always telling him how brave he was to drive a truck full of money.

  He thought: well, she wouldn’t think I’m so damned brave now if she could see me lying here, and not doing anything about saving the truck just because I haven’t the guts to turn over on my side. She certainly wouldn’t think much of me now. There were two things he could do to save the truck: one was to set the radio signal going and the other was to press the button to scramble the time lock.

  The scrambler button was near the steering wheel. To get at it, he would have to sit up and lean forward and what that movement would do to his shattered jaw made him sweat just to think of it.

  Carrie would expect him to save the truck. His wife, Harriette, wouldn’t. She would understand, but Carrie had standards, and he would no longer be a hero to her if he didn’t try to save the truck. The Agency too would expect him to save the truck. If he did manage to make the effort, they might prove generous and take care of his wife and Carrie. You couldn’t be sure what they would do, of course, but it was pretty certain if these thugs broke into the truck, the Agency would think he hadn’t done his duty, and that might make a difference when it came to paying out a pension for Harriette: it might make a hell of a difference.

  He thought: well, go on, be brave. The radio signal is the most important. Get that going first. All you have to do is to turn over on your side and reach up. The switch is just above your head. Push that down and, in half an hour or less, there’ll be a flock of patrol cars on their way and you’ll be a hero. Try it anyway. What’s a little pain?

  But it took him some minutes to screw up his courage to move, and when he finally did, the flash of pain was so intense that he fainted again, and he lay still, his hand beyond the clutch pedal.

  The unexpected sound of hammering brought him to and he opened his eyes.

  Facing him was the steel shutter covering the driver’s window. He could see a slit of daylight now coming through the shutter. As he focused his eyes, he saw the end of a tyre lever being forced between the shutter and the window frame.

  He thought: so they are coming to finish me. Well, that’s okay by me, but I’ll take one of them with me if they give me a chance. That’s the least I can do. Mike wouldn’t think much of me unless I hit back for him. I’d like to take two of them, but the way I’m placed I’ll be lucky to get one.

  Weakly, his hand groped for his gun which he hadn’t a chance to draw when Morgan had shot him. The gun was a .45 Colt automatic, and as it slid out of its holster, it felt very heavy; so heavy that Thomas nearly dropped it.

  He m
ade the effort, and got the gun down by his right side, the sight lifted and pointing at the window. He thought: well, come on, you punk! I’ve got something for you that’ll surprise you. Don’t keep me waiting. I’m not going to live much longer, so hurry up!

  He heard someone say sharply, ‘Someone’s coming! Hold it!’

  There was a long pause. He felt his consciousness beginning to leave him, and it was only with a tremendous effort of will that he fought off the feeling of faintness.

  He muttered under his breath: ‘Hurry. Hurry.’

  Then he heard a man say, ‘If this punk starts shooting, they’ll hear the shot.’

  Another voice said, ‘It doesn’t matter. They must hunt in these woods. They’ll imagine it’s some guy after game. Come on! Let’s take him!’

  The gun in Thomas’s hand was growing heavier, and he realized that he could no longer keep the sight on the window. He would have to wait until they opened the door. He would have a good chance for a body shot then.

  He heard the tyre lever creaking as someone on the other side of the shutter bent his weight on it, and he waited, pain making it difficult for him to breathe, but intent and as dangerous and as vicious as a cornered and wounded lion.

  ‘Get another lever,’ a voice said, ‘and help me.’

  Another lever end appeared through the opening. There was more creaking, then a sudden snapping noise and the shutter slid up.

  Both Morgan and Bleck kept away from the open window.

  They stood either side of the door of the cab and listened.

  They didn’t hear anything and they looked at each other.

  ‘Do you think he’s foxing?’ Bleck asked, breathing with difficulty.

  ‘He could be,’ Morgan said.

  Still keeping out of sight, he slid his arm through the open window and groped for the door handle.

  Thomas watched him, his eyes half shut, his finger tightening a little on the trigger of his gun, taking in the slack.

  Morgan got the door open. It swung Bleck’s way, preventing him from looking into the cab. Morgan looked in quickly, ducked forward and immediately pulled back. He had a brief glimpse of a man lying huddled on the floor of the cab, his eyes closed, his face the colour of wet clay. Morgan’s breath hissed through his teeth.