Well Now My Pretty Read online

  Tom controlled himself with an effort. His smile was a grimace.

  "We'll unpack first. . . thanks a lot. Suppose I come around when we've settled in?"

  "Sure and bring your wife. Let's say in a couple of hours, huh? I'll open a bottle of Scotch someone gave me . . . it's damn fine Scotch if one can judge by its label. Like me to help you unpack? I'm pretty good at carrying things."

  "No, thanks. Okay, Mr. Dylan, in a couple of hours."

  "That's right. Well, from the look of you, I guess you had a fine vacation. Did I tell you the wife and I are off next week? We're going to Lake Veronica. Should be some good fishing there. It will make a change. We haven't had a vacation for a couple of years."

  Tom moved restlessly.

  "Hope you have a good time . . . well, if you'll excuse me. We want to settle in."

  "Why, sure. So you borrowed that car, huh? Nice one. I'd like to have a Buick."

  "Tom!" Sheila's voice was shrill. "Will you come and carry this case?"

  "There." Dylan's smile widened. "You and me talking, and the little woman does all the work."

  Tom stepped back.

  "Sure I can't help?" Dylan asked as the door began to close in his face.

  "It's okay," Tom said and closed the door. He leaned against it, swearing under his breath. "One of these days, I'll kill that jerk!"

  "Tom!"

  He joined her as she opened the carton. The sight of the tightly packed wads of $500 bills made both catch their breath.

  "Look at it!" Sheila whispered. "Oh, God! Look at it!"

  With a shaking hand, Tom picked up one of the packets of money. Then as if it had bitten him, he dropped it back into the carton.

  "We could get twenty years for this! We'd better call the police!"

  Sheila took the packet he had dropped. With shaking fingers, she counted the bills.

  "There's ten thousand dollars right here . . . ten thousand dollars!" She suddenly stiffened, threw the money back into the carton and faced Tom. "You fool! Oh, hell . . . how did I come to marry such a goddamn dope?"

  "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

  "You put our address on our car! That man could find our car and he'll know we have the money! Oh, God! How stupid can you be?"

  "We're taking the money to the police," Tom said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "So, okay, let him know we have it . . . why should we care?"

  "We're not taking the money to the police. Can't you ever use that thing you call a head? If we turn the money over to the police, they will cash in on the reward! Have you ever had any reason to trust a cop? Come on, Tom, help me get this carton into the house. We've got to take this car back fast!"

  "Take the car back? What do you mean?"

  She turned on him, her eyes blazing and she slapped him heavily across the face, sending him reeling.

  "Help me get this money into the house!" she said, her voice low and furious.

  Her expression scared him. Muttering, unnerved, he dragged the carton out of the car. Together, they staggered with it into the living-room and dropped it heavily on the worn carpet. Sheila ran to the window and pulled down the blind.

  "Come on! We'll get the pump and drive back. Every minute we waste could put us into worse trouble!"

  He caught hold of her arm and jerked her around.

  "What are you planning to do? What is all this?"

  Her eyes glittering, her face white, she faced him.

  "I'm handling this! You're going to do what I tell you! I've lived a year with you and I've had enough of your crummy way of life! Two and a half million dollars! We've got it! No one knows we have it. Now, listen to me . . . we're going to keep it! Do you hear me? We're going to keep every dollar of it!"

  * * *

  Maisky watched the Buick back out of the hide, turn and then drive down the short track to the dirt road. Two and a half million dollars! Going away from him after all his planning! He felt so bad he thought he was going to die.

  He lay on the damp floor of the cave, his face resting on the back of his cold hand. He heard voices, then he heard the Buick drive away.

  Who could these two be? He wondered. Why had they taken his car? They looked honest enough. Why had they taken his car?

  He made the effort and sat up. They must have come in a car . . . where was it?

  He stared down at the steep path that led from the cave to the glade. Then, moving aside the branches that covered the mouth of the cave, he started down the path, moving slowly, terrified that the pain in his chest might return.

  Finally, he reached the glade. He looked around, then continued on down the path to the dirt road. There he saw a dusty Corvette Sting Ray under the trees and a slip of paper under one of the windscreen wipers. He approached the car and slid the paper from under the windscreen wiper.

  He read Tom's message.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the car. So this was the explanation. They had broken down and had borrowed the Buick, but they were coming back! With any luck, they wouldn't look in the boot. How could they? They hadn't the key. Then he stiffened. The man had started the car . . . how had he done it, if he hadn't the key? That key would also open the boot! Well, maybe they wouldn't open the boot.

  With a shaking hand he copied Whiteside's address down on the back of an old bill he had found in his pocket. Then he put Tom's note back under the windscreen wiper.

  Well, now all he could do was to hope. They looked honest people. They would return the car, fix their own car and that would be the last he would see of them . . . with any luck. He hesitated, his cunning mind now very alert. Would they wonder what the car was doing in the glade? Would they report finding it to the police? Maybe he had better leave when they returned the car. But where could he go? He was now feeling weak and breathless again. He longed to lie down and rest. Moving cautiously, he made his way back to the cave.

  * * *

  Patrolman Fred O'Toole looked at his watch. In another ten minutes he would be off duty . . . and about time too! He had had more than enough of checking this continuous flow of cars leaving the City, and his temper was frayed.

  Then he saw a car coming and he groaned to himself. He stepped out into the middle of the outward lane, holding up his hand.

  The Buick coupe slowed and Tom Whiteside leaned out of the window. His face was pale under his sun-tan and his grin forced.

  "Hi, Fred."

  "Oh, you . . ." O'Toole looked puzzled. "I thought I saw you going home . . ." He came to the window and peered in at Tom and Sheila.

  "Yeah . . . I'm now taking this car back," Tom said.

  "Hello, Mr. O'Toole," Sheila said brightly. She gave him a sexy smile. "Long time no see. How do you like my sun-tan?"

  O'Toole had always thought she was the most gorgeous piece of tail he had ever seen. He smiled at her, eyeing her breasts. "You look good enough to eat, Mrs. Whiteside. Had a good time?"

  "Did you ever take your wife on a camping vacation, Mr. O'Toole?"

  O'Toole laughed.

  "I don't look for trouble."

  "Well, my love of a hubby doesn't know trouble when he sees it. But it wasn't all that bad."

  In spite of the small talk, O'Toole didn't neglect to look the car over. He remembered the wanted car was a Buick coupe and this was a Buick coupe.

  "Something new, Tom?" he asked.

  "No . . . my goddam car broke down. I borrowed this. What's all the commotion about?"

  "Commotion? Don't you read the papers? There's been a twoand-a-half-million-dollar steal from the Casino. We have the robbers holed up in the City so orders are to check every outgoing car."

  "Is that right?" Sheila thrust her bust in O'Toole's direction. "Well, what do you know! Two and a half million . . . wheeee!"

  O'Toole regarded her. Whiteside certainly had it good. Imagine getting this frill into bed every night.

  "I'll have to check the car, Tom," he said, getting back to business.

  "Go rig
ht ahead." Tom gave him the ignition key. "I'm just returning this car and then picking up my own ruin."

  O'Toole checked the boot, then gave Tom back the key.

  "Who did you borrow this from?"

  "Oh, a guy . . . one of our clients," Tom said, flicking sweat off his face.

  O'Toole leaned into the car and looked at the licence tag. Then he stepped back and wrote in his notebook: Franklin Ludovick, Mon Repose, Sandy Lane, Paradise City.

  Tom watched him, feeling sick.

  "Okay, go ahead. I'm off duty in five more minutes. Gee! Will I be glad!"

  "I bet. Be seeing you," and Tom engaged gear and drove through the road block.

  "Phew!" Sheila sighed softly.

  Tom said nothing. He was thinking of the carton loaded with more money than he thought existed now in their sitting-room.

  There must be a big reward, he thought. The insurance people would be covering the Casino. But it was a mistake not to go to the police right away. How could he explain the delay? He moved uneasily. He thought of what Sheila had said. She must be crazy! Glancing at her hard, cold face, he felt a prickle of fear. She couldn't really mean to stick to all that money!

  He turned off the highway and began to drive up the dirt road.

  "They could be there, waiting for us," he said suddenly.

  "They? There's only one . . . he's over sixty and frail. You heard what was said on the radio," Sheila said scornfully. "Don't tell me you're scared of a man like that?"

  But Tom was scared.

  "This is out of our class. A man like that . . . he could have a gun."

  "So what? So he has a gun . . . we have two and a half million dollars! If you can't handle him, I know I can!"

  Tom moved uneasily.

  "How you talk! Always the big mouth! I still think we should go to the police."

  "Oh, for God's sake! We're not going to the police!"

  They came within sight of the Sting Ray. He pulled up and got out of the Buick.

  The note he had written was still under the windscreen wiper. He slipped it out and shoved it into his pocket. Well, he thought, beginning to relax, at least here's luck. This guy didn't find my car.

  Going back to the Buick, he took out the new oil pump he had picked up at the G.M. garage and then set to work to change the dud for the new one.

  Sheila walked into the glade and Maisky saw her. He watched her as she wandered around. In spite of his anxiety, his elderly lust was aroused. He eyed her heavy breasts and the slow roll of her buttocks as she walked.

  This, he thought, could be one hell of a lay.

  He was sorry when she went down the path on to the dirt road and he lost sight of her. He heard them talking, then a car started up. With a grinding roar and a rattle, the car moved off.

  Maisky steeled himself, then walked down the path to the Buick. His hand was shaking as he unlocked the boot. He lifted the lid and then stood motionless. In a frenzy of sudden rage, he spat into the empty boot.

  They had found and taken the carton!

  * * *

  Tom drove his car into the garage and cut the engine. Sheila slid out of the car and shut the garage doors. They walked quickly through the kitchen and then into the sitting-room. They stood looking at the carton, then Sheila lifted the lid.

  "I never thought I would live to see so much money," she said huskily. Squatting down on her heels, she picked up one of the packets and pressed it to her breasts. "Two and a half million dollars . . . it's a dream!"

  Tom dropped into a lounging chair. He felt shaky and scared. "We can't keep it. We must tell the police."

  She dropped the packet of money back into the carton.

  "We are going to keep it . . . all of it." Going to the cocktail cabinet, *she poured two big whiskies and gave him one. "Here . . ."

  Tom swallowed the drink at a gulp. The spirit immediately hit him. He felt suddenly fine and a little reckless.

  "No one knows we have it," Sheila said, sitting down and sipping her drink. "We must now use our heads. This is a gift . . . make up your mind about it. We are going to keep it."

  Tom felt the whisky move through him.

  "Okay . . . so suppose we are crazy enough to keep it? We can't spend it. Everyone knows in this goddam town that we never have any money. So what do we do with it?"

  She looked thoughtfully at him, thinking this was a step in the right direction. At least he was becoming co-operative.

  "We wait. In a few months' time it will be safe to move it out of here. They can't keep the road blocks going for ever. When things cool down, we'll blow."

  Tom ran sweating fingers through his hair.

  "So? What the hell do we do with this right now? Leave it here?"

  "No . . . we'll bury it. That patch of ground under the kitchen window . . . we'll bury it there."

  He stared at her, worried. She seemed to have an answer for everything.

  "You realise we could go to jail for twenty years?"

  "You realise we now own two and a half million dollars?"

  Tom got to his feet. She was too strong for him. Maybe she could steer this thing right. He knew he was doing wrong, but even against his pricking conscience, the thought of owning all this money was too much for him.

  "Okay. This is your funeral. I've got to go. Look at the time. I'm late already. What are we going to do with this box right now?"

  Sheila hesitated, then said, "Let's put it in the spare bedroom. We can cover it with the eiderdown."

  "If we are going to go through with this, you will be chained to this house. You can't go out. You realise this?"

  "Do you think that's so rough? Keeping watch over this kind of money isn't a hardship."

  "It could go on for months."

  "So, okay. I'll stay right here for months."

  He hesitated, then gave up.

  "I still think we're playing this wrong. We should tell the police."

  "I told you . . . I'm handling this. We don't tell the police."

  He stared at her, then raised his hands helplessly. He knew he was being weak . . . stupid . . . but all this money. . .

  "Well, all right."

  "Let's get it in the bedroom."

  They dragged the carton into their bedroom and pushed it against the wall. Sheila took the eiderdown off the bed and draped it over the carton.

  "You get off. You'd better bring something in for supper." Tom felt a sudden overpowering desire for her.

  "If we are going through with this together," he said, his voice shaking and husky, "then we'd better go the whole way."

  She recognised the despairing desire in his eyes and she once again recognised her complete power over him.

  "Oh, well . . . if you must."

  She slid down her slacks and stripped off her panties. Then she dropped back flat across the bed. When he thrust into her with desperate urgency, she clutched hold of him, making a response to please and control him. As he shuddered, clinging to her, she stared up at the fly-blown ceiling, so bored with him she could scream.

  When he had gone, she took a shower. Then walking, naked, into the bedroom, she took the eiderdown off the carton and squatting on her heels, she spent a long time fondling the money.

  Here, she thought, was power . . . the key to unlock the door that would lead into the world she had always dreamed about. Her first buy would be a mink coat, then a diamond necklace, and then every other jewel that caught her eye. She thought of a six-bedroom house with a bathroom to every bedroom, a vast lounge, a big garden, immaculately kept by Chinese labour. Then a maroon-coloured Bentley car and a Japanese chauffeur in a maroon-coloured uniform. There would be a motor-boat, of course: possibly a yacht. She wasn't sure about this as she had never been on the sea. She had it all planned: it was a dream she had had ever since she could remember. Well, now it was within reach.

  She stood up, running her long fingers over her body, lifting her breasts, and sighing. Then she began to dress.

  S
omewhere along the line, Tom would have to go. He didn't fit in the picture. He was too small-time . . . too narrow . . . too scared. She had in mind a dark, tall, well-built man who would know how to handle money, who would have the respect of head waiters, and who would know how to take care of a girl. Yes, some time in the future, she must lose Tom, but the time hadn't come yet.