Well Now My Pretty Read online

  Unable to resist the temptation, she took three five-hundreddollar bills from the carton, then she closed the lid and replaced the eiderdown. She slid the folded bills down the top of one of her stockings. It was exciting to feel so much money pressing against her skin.

  She went to her wardrobe and regarded the contents with contempt. God! What a collection of ghastly rags! She put on a pleated grey skirt and a cream-coloured sweater.

  Having done her face and hair, she walked into the sitting-room. She looked at her cheap wristwatch. It was a few minutes after eleven-thirty. Tom wouldn't be back until six. Usually, she went out, but now she found herself chained to the bungalow. There was nothing to read in the house. She frowned, suddenly realising that from now on until they left the bungalow for good she would be a prisoner here. With all that money to spend . . . what a waste of time!

  She felt hungry and realised there was nothing to eat in the house. She hesitated, then getting up she called the Sandwich Bar at the end of the street. She ordered two chicken sandwiches and a bottle of milk. The man said he would send her order over right away.

  She turned on the TV set, but at this hour the programme was so dull, she immediately turned it off. A boy arrived a quarter of an hour later with the food. She paid him, noting she had only three dollars and a few cents in her purse.

  She ate the sandwiches while moving around the lounge. She was restless and kept thinking of all that money in the bedroom. She kept thinking what a waste of time it was to have to wait when she could now start a spending spree.

  As she finished the last of the sandwiches, the front-door bell rang. The sound made her jump and she stood motionless, her heart hammering. Then, when the bell rang again, she went to the front door.

  Harry Dylan was standing on the doorstep.

  "I guess you forgot our little date," he said and waved a bottle of Old Roses at her. "The wife's gone shopping. I thought I'd look in."

  She eyed him, hesitated, then decided he was better than boredom.

  "Well . . . come in."

  "Mr. Whiteside's gone to work, hasn't he?" Dylan was eyeing her figure. The tip of his tongue moistened his lips.

  "Yes . . . he's gone to work."

  She led the way into the sitting-room.

  "Here are the receipts and the parcel."

  She looked at the electricity and gas bills and tossed them on the table.

  "My husband will settle with these." She stared at Dylan. "He never leaves me any money."

  "I guess most husbands are like that," Dylan said and laughed nervously. He couldn't keep his eyes to himself. "Well, how about a drink, Mrs. Whiteside?"

  "Why not?"

  She got glasses, charge water and ice. All the time she moved around, she was aware of his eyes on her body. Well, let him look, the poor dumb fish, she thought. It's not costing me anything.

  "You heard about the Casino robbery?" he asked, measuring out two big drinks. "Quite something. Two and a half million dollars! It's my bet they will never see that again!"

  She sat down, deliberately careless with her skirt. She let him see the colour of her panties before she adjusted her skirt. He slopped some of the drink.

  "Yes, I heard about it on the radio. What would you do with all that money, Mr. Dylan?"

  "I wouldn't know . . . honestly. They say one man's got it now. I've worked in a bank for years, Mrs. Whiteside. I do know something about the value of money. Let me tell you . . . that's too much money. The average person wouldn't know what to do with it."

  She had to make an effort not to show her contempt. "Oh, I don't know. Money goes fast."

  "But not as much money as that. It would be an embarrassment. And besides, it is all in $500 bills. Now, a bill that size creates suspicion. When I was at the bank and someone wanted to change a $500 bill, I always checked. Just imagine being landed with all those bills."

  Sheila stared thoughtfully at her glass. She hadn't thought of this.

  "Surely people do have $500 bills?"

  "Of course, but not many of them. And the banks will now be watching for them." They sipped their drinks while his eyes ran over her legs. "So you had a good vacation?"

  She didn't hear him. She was thinking . . . wondering whether a fat old fool like him knew what he was talking about. He probably didn't. After all, the rich gamblers at the Casino used $500 bills as she used lipstick.

  "Mrs. Whiteside . . . you're day dreaming," Dylan said and laughed. "So far away . . . did you have a good vacation? Did you really enjoy it?"

  Oh, God! Not that again! She was suddenly utterly bored with him. She had hoped maybe he would help pass the time, but his obvious lust, his peeping eyes and his fat, sweating face now sickened her.

  "Yes . . . fine." She finished her drink and stood up. "Well . . . sorry to push you out, but I have unpacking to do. Tom will settle up some time this evening. Thanks for the drink."

  She got rid of him before he realised he was being bustled out. She watched him through the window as he walked away, looking lonely and depressed.

  She grimaced.

  Men! she thought.

  Eight

  AT TWENTY minutes past midnight, Tom, who had been looking at his watch continuously for the past half hour, stood up.

  'We can do it now," he said. "I'm not waiting any longer."

  "Better go out and see if any lights are showing," Sheila said, but she too was anxious to get the money buried.

  "I know . . . I know . . . you don't have to tell me!"

  Tom went into the kitchen, turned off the light, opened the back door and walked into the garden.

  It was a hot night, and there was a big moon like a dead man's face, casting a hard white light over the garden. He walked slowly down the garden path until he came to the bottom fence, then he turned and looked at the bungalows either side of his. They were all in darkness. He then hurried back as Sheila joined him.

  "All right?"

  "Yes . . . I'll get the spade. You go down to the fence and watch."

  She nodded and moved past him.

  The digging was harder than he imagined. They had left the flower bed empty, not bothering to plant it up, and the ground had turned hard.

  Sheila kept coming up the path, asking if he wasn't finished, for God's sake. He snarled at her. Both of them were jumpy and their nerves were frayed.

  Finally, he stepped out of the hole and peered down at it. It should be deep enough, he thought.

  Seeing him get out of the hole, Sheila joined him.

  "An hour and a half to dig a little hole!" she said scornfully. "What kind of man are you?"

  "Oh, shut up!" Tom snapped. "The ground's like concrete. Come on. . . let's get the box."

  They went into the bedroom where the carton was already wrapped in a big plastic sheet Tom had found in the loft. It was roped and ready to be buried. They dragged it out and dropped it into the hole.

  "Go back and watch!" Tom said as he picked up the spade. Twenty minutes later, they were back in their sitting-room. Tom poured himself a big shot of whisky. He was dirty, sweating and very jumpy.

  "We're crazy to do this," he said, after a gulp at the whisky. "We'll never spend all that money! Why can't we settle for the reward?"

  "So, okay, we're crazy," Sheila said. "Take a shower and go to bed. I'm sick of the sight of you!"

  "Suppose someone digs it up while we sleep?"

  "Who?"

  "I don't know, but suppose . . ."

  "So okay, you want to sit up all night? Then go ahead." He looked at her, exasperated.

  "Some dog could . . ."

  "Oh, quiet down!" She went into the bedroom and began to undress.

  Tom hesitated, then he walked uneasily into the bedroom. After a hot shower, he felt more relaxed. As he came back into the bedroom, a quick, furtive move by Sheila arrested his attention.

  "What are you up to?"

  "Nothing."

  "You were hiding something."

  "O
h, be your age! I . . ."

  He studied her, then walked over to her. She eyed him, tense, her eyes glittering. She was wearing a shortie nightdress that came well above her knees. He could see the pink of her nipples through the thin stuff.

  As he reached to open the drawer of the chest by the bed, she slapped his hand away.

  "Be your age, Tom!"

  "Did you take any of the money?"

  "No!"

  "You're lying!" He gave her a hard shove that sent her flat on her back across the bed. Then he jerked open the drawer. But there was no money there.

  She lay looking up at him, a sneering little smile on her lips, her shortie riding up way above her white thighs.

  "Satisfied, caveman?"

  He stood over her. His anxiety neutralised his sexual feelings.

  "I don't trust you! You are money crazy! If you spend just one of those bills, we are cooked! Do you understand? Can you get this fact into your greedy mind? We don't touch any of that money until we are out of this State . . . can you understand?"

  She sat up, holding the three $500 bills concealed in her right hand.

  "You don't have to shout at me!"

  "I'm telling you because you are greedy, stupid and bad. If we spend one of those bills . . . we're cooked!"

  "I'm not deaf. I heard you the first time. What are you getting so worked up about? I haven't touched the money! Get into bed and stop acting like a B movie star."

  She walked across the room into the bathroom, deliberately waving her hips at him. She kicked the door shut, then paused, listened and looked at the three crumpled bills in her hand. That had been a little close, she thought. If he had found them, he would have taken them from her. She hesitated, then hurriedly put the bills in a box of Kleenex which Tom never used. Then, humming under her breath, she took a shower.

  Tom stretched out in bed. He thought of all that money outside in the garden. He thought of Sheila. She had been trying to hide something . . . he was sure of that. She was greedy and stupid enough to want to spend that money at once. He rubbed the side of his face, staring up at the ceiling. He must be mad to let her persuade him to keep the money!

  She came into the bedroom and walked around the bed. "I'll want some money tomorrow," she said, sliding under the sheet. "I have only three dollars."

  "We'll have to watch it. I haven't much to last to the end of the month."

  "Not much . . . only two and a half million dollars," and she laughed.

  "How many more times do I have to tell you . . . we don't spend one dollar of that until we are out of the State!"

  "I heard you the first time."

  He snapped off the light. They lay in silence in the dark. Tom began to think how she had looked, lying across the bed with her shortie almost up to her navel. He began to move restlessly.

  "Listen, Casanova," she said out of the darkness. "I recognise the signs. You've had your ration for the month. Go to sleep." She turned over, drawing up her long legs.

  Neither of them slept much that night.

  * * *

  The sun coming through the branches that covered the mouth of the cave woke Maisky. He was immediately aware that he was feeling stronger. Suspicious, he lay still, staring up at the damp roof of the cave. Then he slowly sat up. He discovered he was feeling normal again and, startled, he got off the heap of blankets. He walked around the cave, stretching his thin arms.

  The attack seemed over. Goddam it! He was actually hungry.

  He cooked and enjoyed a breakfast of ham and eggs, washed down with weak coffee, then he shaved and washed in a bucket of water. He then sat on the bed of blankets, resting for twenty minutes, but he still felt perfectly normal. It was a miracle, he thought. The previous night, he thought he was going to die.

  Soon his mind began to concentrate on the money. He would have to leave the cave. Those two might just possibly tell the police about the Buick, although he doubted it. They had taken the money so were they likely to alert the police? All the same, it would be risky to remain here and he never took risks.

  He wondered where he should go, then he suddenly smiled. He took from his wallet the old bill on which he had written the address: Tom Whiteside, 1123, Delpont Avenue, Paradise City. What better place . . . where the money was?

  He went over to the far end of the cave and squatted down before a shabby suitcase which he opened.

  Maisky's years of associating with criminals had taught him to be always prepared for the unexpected. He had decided, long before the robbery, that there might come a time when he would have to drop out of sight. So he had come prepared. From the suitcase, he took out a thick, white wig, a black coat, black trousers, a black slouch hat and a clergyman's collar.

  Ten minutes later, he was completely transformed. The small, frail, white-haired cleric who stared at his reflection in the hand mirror had no resemblance to Serg Maisky who had planned and executed the Casino robbery. He put on horn-rimmed spectacles, ran his fingers carefully through the false white hair, then put on the hat. He was sure he could walk past any policeman in perfect safety.

  Then he packed the suitcase with the various things he would need, making it as light as possible. With a brief look around the cave, he walked slowly down the path and to the Buick.

  He drove down the five miles of dirt road, stopped the car, parking it against a hedge. Then, carrying his suitcase, he walked slowly to the highway and to the bus stop.

  "Don't go off without giving me some money," Sheila said as Tom put on his jacket.

  "Come the time when you forget the word money . . . come the time." He gave her a five-dollar bill. "Nurse it. We're short. We could be in trouble at the end of the month."

  "Come the time when we're not in trouble."

  "I've got to get off. You stay right here, Sheila. I'll bring in supper."

  "I'll stay."

  When he had gone, she had a second cup of coffee, looked at her watch and grimaced. As it was only twenty minutes past eight, she went back to bed, but she was restless and couldn't sleep. She kept thinking of the three $500 bills in the Kleenex box._ Finally, she got out of bed and took them from the box. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she examined each of them closely. They looked perfectly ordinary, but, not content with her scrutiny, she went into the sittingroom and found a magnifying glass Tom sometimes used to check small scale maps. Putting on the reading lamp, she went over each note under the glass. They were not marked, she decided. She was absolutely convinced of this . . . so why not spend them? She remembered what Dylan had said about the banks checking the big bills. Well, okay, she wouldn't go to a bank. Suppose she put a small bet on a horse and gave the bookie one of the bills? Bookies were used to handling $500 bills. They would give her change.

  Pleased with this idea, she put the bills back in the Kleenex box and returned to bed. There was an all-night betting shop downtown. When Tom got back, she would say she had to have a breath of air and then go down there and place a bet.

  Around eleven o'clock, having read the newspaper and getting bored with herself, she got up and dressed. She went into the kitchen, opened the window and looked down at the freshly turned soil of the flower bed. Tom had certainly made a mess on the path. It had been too dark for him to see it, but now, in daylight, it looked a real mess. She was wondering if she should go out and sweep up when she heard the front-door bell ring. She stood motionless, alert and tense, then, when the bell rang again, she went to the front door. Her heart sank when she saw Harry Dylan standing there.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Whiteside," he said cheerfully. "My word! Talk about energy! I see you've dug up your back bed. When did you do it . . . last night?"

  Sheila kept her face expressionless with an effort although she could have killed this fat, little bore.

  "Oh, that . . . Tom got a sudden bee in his bonnet. Yes . . . last night. He has too much energy."

  "I was wondering when you were going to dig it up. It's a nice bed . . . a good size. I have a bo
x of petunias I can spare. They would do well there."

  "Thanks a lot . . . but Tom has his own ideas."

  "What's he planning to put in? Geraniums would do well too."

  "I don't know and I couldn't care less," Sheila snapped. "Excuse me. I have something on the stove," and she shut the door. She stood for a long moment, then drew in a deep breath. That creep! He never misses a thing, she thought.

  She now decided against cleaning up the path. As Dylan had already noticed the digging why should she do a chore Tom could do when he got home?