Well Now My Pretty Read online

  She walked down the street, feeling the gun chafing against her skin. At the end of the street was a taxi rank. She headed towards it, then suddenly paused. She was right opposite Ashton's, the jewellers, and there was that gold watch beckoning to her. She hesitated for a long moment, then the thought of owning it overwhelmed her. She walked into the shop.

  "Good morning, madame." The man behind the counter was tall, elderly and very refined. "Why, of course, it is Mrs. Whiteside. Your husband sold me a car last year. How is he?" As she stared blankly at him, he smiled, revealing plastic teeth. "I am Harold Marshall, Mrs. Whiteside. Your husband may have mentioned me."

  This crummy town! Sheila thought. Like living in a fish bowl! She gave him a dazzling smile.

  "Yes, of course. Mr. Marshall, it is our wedding anniversary next week. My husband wants me to have that gold watch . . . the one in the window."

  "Now which one would that be?" Marshall said, going to the window and opening the grille.

  She joined him and pointed.

  "That one."

  "Oh yes . . . it's quite the nicest design we have." He lifted the watch from its black-velvet bed. "It would make a splendid anniversary present. This is your first, I believe."

  She wasn't listening, her eyes were on the watch.

  "Let us try it on, Mrs. Whiteside."

  She shivered as she felt the gold band grip her flesh. At last! Something she had longed for and dreamed about for months . . . now it was actually on her wrist!

  "I'll take it."

  He was slightly startled. She hadn't even asked the price! From what he had heard from the local gossip the Whitesides were always in debt.

  "You couldn't do better, Mrs. Whiteside. I have a box."

  "No, thank you. I'll wear it." She couldn't bear to be parted from the watch now she had it on.

  "Of course. It is a self-winder. You will have no trouble, but if it gains a little bring it back. It will only need a small adjustment. You'll be happy with this for the rest of your life."

  "I'm sure." She paused, staring fascinated at the watch, then, seeing he was becoming a little restless, she asked, "How much is it?"

  He relaxed.

  "One hundred and eighty dollars."

  Well, she thought, I'm certainly spending money, and why not? Don't I own two and a half million dollars, but as she gave Marshall the second $500 bill, she thought of the little man waiting for her in the bungalow.

  Then she became aware that Marshall was regarding the bill doubtfully.

  "My husband made a killing at the Casino," she said hurriedly. "The first time he has ever won. Talk about luck! Two thousand dollars!"

  Marshall smiled.

  "Yes, indeed. You know, Mrs. Whiteside, although I admit I have often tried, I have never won a dollar at the Casino. I am very happy to hear Mr. Whiteside has been so fortunate."

  "Yes."

  He gave her change.

  "Are you sure you don't want the box?"

  "No, thank you . . . and thanks."

  When she had gone, Marshall picked up the bill and frowned at it. He remembered the recent instructions he had received from police headquarters. A waste of time, he thought, but he wrote Sheila's name and address on the back of the bill before placing it in the till.

  * * *

  The time was twenty minutes to three. Tom Whiteside had been sitting at his desk, thinking of what Sheila had told him. The tension had become unbearable. He suddenly decided he must go home and find out what exactly was happening. Wiping his sweating hands, he got up and walked into the showroom.

  Peter Cain, the head salesman, was talking to a client. Tom could see Locking talking to someone on the telephone through the glass wall of his office. He hesitated, then, as Locking hung up, Tom walked uneasily to the door, knocked and entered the office.

  Locking frowned at him.

  "What is it, Tom? I'm busy."

  White faced, sweat glistening on his forehead, Tom said, "I have to go home, Mr. Locking . . . something I ate. I feel terrible."

  People who felt terrible bored Locking. He shrugged his fat shoulders.

  "Okay, Tom, then get off," and he reached for a file of papers. The unfeeling bastard! Tom thought as he walked to where he had parked his car. He got in, started the engine and drove fast down the highway.

  Fifteen minutes later, his heart thumping, sick with apprehension, he drove into his garage and shut the doors. As he walked into the kitchen, he heard the TV was on. A voice, strident with excitement, was giving a commentary on a wrestling match.

  He hesitated. What the hell was going on? As he moved down the passage, Sheila called softly to him from the bedroom. He found her sitting on the bed.

  "Shut the door."

  He did so, staring at her.

  "What's happening? What . . . ?"

  "He's a TV addict," Sheila said. "He's in there."

  "He? Who?"

  She clenched her fists with exasperation.

  "The man the police are looking for . . . the fifth robber! I told you, you dope!"

  "You really mean he's here? I thought you had gone crazy!" Tom stared at her, horror in his eyes.

  "Must you always act like a brainless jerk?" Sheila said. "I told you . . . he found our address, thanks to you. He knows we have the money. He intends to stay here until it's safe for him to leave."

  "He can't stay here!" Tom said wildly. "I'm going to call the police."

  "You don't have to do that, Mr. Whiteside," Maisky said softly. He had opened the bedroom door so quietly neither of them had heard him come in.

  Tom whirled around.

  Maisky smiled at him. He wasn't wearing the white wig and he looked quite harmless in his clergyman's outfit until Torn looked into the grey snake's eyes and he flinched.

  "I don't see what you have to worry about, Mr. Whiteside," Maisky went on. "There's enough money for all of us. Let's go into the living-room and discuss this quietly." Turning, he walked down the passage and into the living-room. A little reluctantly, he turned off the television, then sat down.

  Tom and Sheila followed him, hesitated, then took chairs away from him. Tom stared at him, unable to believe this frail little man could be at the back of the Casino robbery, yet scared of him. Those eyes and the mild smile chilled him.

  "Now . . . the money," Maisky said, placing his finger tips together. "I am quite happy to take one and a half million for myself. That leaves you two a million. I think that is fair. After all, I engineered the plan. I shall have to remain here for a few weeks, but this I have already discussed with Mrs. Whiteside. You are being well paid for putting up with me. Do you accept these terms?"

  There was a pause, then, as Tom was hesitating, Sheila said, "Yes . . . all right."

  She was thinking if this little freak imagined he was going to walk out of here with a million and a half dollars, the joke would be on him. She thought of the .25 automatic she had hidden. When the time came for him to leave, he would walk into one hell of a surprise.

  Tom stared at her.

  "We can't agree!" he exclaimed. "We're not keeping a dollar of the money! We could go to jail for twenty years! I've had enough of this! I . . ."

  "Will you shut up, you gutless ape!" Sheila screamed at him. Her fury was so violent, it silenced him.

  Maisky giggled.

  "And they call women the weaker sex," he said. "Well now, my pretty, so we are agreed?"

  "You heard me, didn't you?" Sheila snapped at him.

  Maisky smiled, his eyes glittering. She's dangerous, he thought, and greedy. Well, if she imagined she was going to get a cent out of this, she needed to have her pretty head examined. All the same, he would have to watch her.

  "Fine." He appeared to relax. "Now that's arranged, and we don't have to worry our heads further about it, perhaps I could go on watching the wrestling. It amuses me." He got up and turned on the TV set. "A wonderful invention, Mr. Whiteside . . . a great timepasser."

  Tom got up a
nd walked stiffly into the kitchen.

  As the strident, excited voice of the commentator began to fill the room, Maisky dismissed Sheila with a wave of his hand.

  "Run along, my pretty," he said. "I am sure this must bore you."

  She stared at him, then got up and joined Tom in the kitchen.

  * * *

  "Any coffee left, Chief?" Beigler asked, lighting a cigarette from the stub of another. He leaned back in his chair, his heavy frame making the chair creak.

  "There's a drop," Terrell said and pushed the carton across the desk. "You smoke too much, Joe."

  "Yeah." Beigler poured coffee into the paper cup. "That's always been my trouble." He drank the coffee and then picked up the long typewritten report that had come from the road blocks. It contained a twenty-page list of car numbers and car owners who had passed through the road blocks on their way out of town. "This is getting us nowhere fast."

  "Keep at it," Terrell said. "We're gaining some ground. We now know where he hired the truck and the trucker has a good description of him. When we catch up with him, we have him for sure."

  "We haven't caught . . ." Then Beigler paused, stared at the list he was holding and stiffened. "Hey, Chief! Look at this!" He passed the sheet to Terrell, his thumbnail underscoring the typewritten line.

  Terrell read Franklin Ludovick, Mon Repos, Sandy Lane, Paradise City. Lic. No. P.C. 6678.

  "Whose report?"

  "Fred O'Toole."

  "Get him here!"

  Beigler called down to Charlie Tanner.

  "We want Fred. Is he at the road block still?"

  "Hold it." There was a pause, then Tanner said, "No. He's back home. Clocked off half an hour ago."

  "Get him. Send a car, Charlie . . . pronto."

  "Will do," Tanner said and hung up.

  Twenty minutes later, Patrolman Fred O'Toole walked into Terrell's office. He was out of uniform and showed signs of having scrambled into a pair of slacks and an open-neck shirt.

  "Come in, Fred," Terrell said, waving to a chair. "Sorry . . . I guess you were putting your feet up."

  "That's okay, sir," O'Toole said, stiffly at attention. It was all right for the Chief to be friendly, but Beigler was his boss.

  "Sit down," Terrell said. "Don't we have any coffee in this place?"

  Beigler grabbed the telephone. He told Tanner to send out for coffee.

  "What again?" Tanner said wearily.

  "You heard me," Beigler said and hung up. "Relax, Fred."

  Uneasily, O'Toole sat on the edge of a chair.

  "Fred . . . this Buick coupe. Owner, Franklin Ludovick," Terrell said, passing the typewritten sheet across the desk. "What can you tell me about it?"

  "It came through the road block as stated, sir. It was driven by Tom Whiteside, the G.M. agent."

  "Dr. Whiteside's son?"

  "That's correct, sir."

  "Go on."

  "He said he had broken down and had borrowed the car from a client."

  Terrell and Beigler exchanged glances.

  "Did you check the car, Fred?"

  "Not on the inward trip, sir. We weren't checking incoming cars, but a couple of hours later, he came back. He said he was returning the car. I checked it then. It was clean."

  "Was he on his own?"

  "His wife was with him."

  Terrell thought for a moment, then nodded.

  "All right, Fred, you get back home. Have them drive you back."

  When O'Toole had gone, Terrell got to his feet. Beigler was already putting his .38 into its holster. He then snatched up the telephone receiver and told Tanner that Jacoby and Lepski were to report to the car pool pronto.

  "I've got your coffee," Tanner said.

  "Drink it for me," Beigler said and hung up.

  He followed Terrell down to the car pool. As they got into a police car, Lepski and Jacoby came running down the ramp. They scrambled into the back as Beigler set the car in motion.

  Terrell explained the set-up to them.

  "You two cover us. Lepski: take care of the back. Watch it! Could be a tricky one. We'll play it by ear."

  Ten minutes later, the car pulled up outside the Whitesides' bungalow.

  Terrell and Beigler walked up the path and rang on the front- door bell.

  Nine

  TOM WHITESIDE had just finished sweeping the soil off the garden path when he saw Detective 2nd Grade Lepski appear in the lane at the bottom of his garden. He recognised him immediately. Lepski was a wellknown character in Paradise City. The sight of him made Tom's heart skip a beat. Looking quickly away from the detective, he leaned the broom against the wall and walked into the kitchen.

  In the living-room, Maisky saw the police car pull up and Terrell and Beigler start up the path.

  "It's the police," he said quietly to Sheila. "Now, don't lose your head. Remember I am Father Latimer from New Orleans. It's going to be all right if you handle it right."

  His calm, confident tone quietened Sheila's momentary panic. As the front-door bell rang, Maisky went on, "Let them in. Act naturally and relax."

  He sat down in a lounging chair after a brief glance in the mirror over the mantelpiece to make sure his wig was on straight.

  Her heart pounding, but her face composed, Sheila went to the door and opened it.

  "Mrs. Whiteside?" Terrell said, although he knew her all right. There were few residents of the City who didn't know her by sight.

  "Why, yes." She forced a smile. "It's Chief of Police Terrell, isn't it?"

  "Yeah . . . Mr. Whiteside in?"

  "Yes. He came home early. He isn't very well . . . something he ate, but do come in."

  She led him and Beigler into the living-room. Both the police officers were startled to see a small, white-haired clergyman sitting quietly in an armchair. Maisky got to his feet, his smile bright with welcome.

  "This is Father Latimer from New Orleans," Sheila said. "He is staying with us. Father, this is Chief of Police Terrell and— and . . ." She looked at Beigler, flashing him a smile.

  Some chick! Beigler thought as he introduced himself. He had trouble keeping his eyes from those long, slim legs.

  "Yes . . . well, do sit down. I'll fetch Tom."

  She left the room. Maisky shook hands with Terrell and then Beigler.

  "I am happy to know you," he said. "This is my first visit to your beautiful City." His expression became solemn. "I had the unhappy task of laying Sheila's mother to rest."

  Terrell moved uneasily and muttered something under his breath. There was a pause, then Torn came into the room with Sheila at his heels. He was white faced and sweating.

  "Hello, Chief," he said. "You—you wanted me?"

  "I hear you're not well," Terrell said, eyeing him. His certainly didn't look well.

  "Something I ate . . . I'll be okay," Tom said. "Either of you two gentlemen care for a drink?"

  "No, thanks . . . Mr. Whiteside, this Buick coupe you were driving . . ."

  Maisky had sat down. He pressed his finger tips together and beamed at the others.

  "Buick?" Tom said stupidly.

  "Oh, Tom . . . we shouldn't have taken it!" Sheila exclaimed. She was now in control of herself. "You know, I said we shouldn't."

  Tom gaped at her, then desperately trying to control his jumpy nerves, said hurriedly, "Yeah . . . that's right."

  Terrell stared at him, then at Sheila, then back to Tom.

  "Mr. Whiteside, we have reason to believe the car belonged to one of the Casino robbers. Suppose you tell me how you came to be driving it?"

  Sheila caught her breath dramatically and clapped her hands. Watching her, Maisky hoped she wasn't going to overplay her act.

  "So that's why it was hidden!" she exclaimed. "Tom! And we took it! We hadn't an idea!" She turned to Terrell, her big eyes wide. "Of course . . . that explains it, and there we were thinking it belonged to some hunter . . ."

  Terrell regarded her.

  "Suppose you start this from
the beginning," he said.

  "Of course. Please sit down." She dropped into an easy chair, letting Beigler get a glimpse of her thighs as she adjusted her skirt. "We were coming back from a camping vacation. It was late. Tom decided to take a short cut from the Miami highway, down the dirt road through the woods, to the Paradise City highway. I'm sure you must know it . . ." She broke off, seeing Terrell was still standing. She was determined to dominate the interview, and smiling, she pointed to a chair. "Do please sit down, Chief. You look so tall, standing like that."