Well Now My Pretty Page 19

  Terrell lowered his bulk into the chair while Beigler, notebook in hand, leaned up against the wall. Tom sat on an upright chair, behind Sheila.

  "This is all news to me," Maisky burbled. "I have only just arrived. Has there been a robbery, then?"

  "Excuse me," Terrell said curtly. "I want to hear what Mrs. Whiteside has to say."

  "I'm sorry . . . of course . . . excuse me." Maisky beamed, settling himself back in his chair. "This is all very interesting."

  Well, at least, I have got it away from that numbskull, Sheila was thinking, and I've got to keep away from him.

  "Yes," she said, leaning forward and staring with round eyes at Terrell. "So we took this dirt road and then our car broke down. It was the oil pump, wasn't it, Tom?" She looked over her shoulder. "You said it was the oil pump?"

  Tom jerked his head.

  "That's right."

  "Well, there we were . . . right in the middle of the forest . . . stuck, and it was growing dark." She crossed her legs for Beigler's benefit. May as well give this flatfoot something to concentrate on, she thought. Beigler, who never missed anything like that, thought she was sensational . . . and those legs! "We decided to sleep the night there. In the morning as we were getting ready to walk . . ." She paused to make a comic gesture. "Imagine walking five miles! I found this car." She regarded Terrell to see how he was accepting her story. No good flashing her sex at him. He was one of the square, safely married fossils.

  "When you found the car, Mrs. Whiteside, didn't you think you should have reported it to the police?" Terrell said.

  She laughed.

  "I just didn't think . . . nor did Tom. We were worried about leaving the camping equipment in our car. We had borrowed it and it could have been stolen while we were walking down to the bus stop. I just refused to be left alone in that forest . . . it scared me." She paused and looked at Beigler, inviting his sympathy. He thought: I'd like to have you alone, baby . . . a desert island for preference. She switched her gaze back to Terrell. "So we didn't think. Tom had a master key. We put our things in the car and took off. As soon as we got home, we unpacked, then got a new pump and went back. We left the Buick right where we had found it. Tom fitted the new pump and we drove home."

  Terrell scratched the side of his jaw. This sounded like the truth, he thought. O'Toole's report jelled with hers.

  "Did you look in the boot?" he asked Tom.

  Tom started, hesitated, then shook his head.

  "Why, no. We—we just threw our stuff on the back seat. No . . . we didn't look in the boot."

  Terrell got to his feet.

  "I'll have to ask you to show us where you left the Buick . . . right now."

  "Of course." Tom got to his feet. "I'll just put on my jacket."

  As he left the room, Sheila stood up.

  "You really mean, Chief, that we were driving the gangster's car?"

  "I guess so," Terrell said, aware that Beigler's eyes were roving over Sheila's body.

  "Well!" Sheila spun around to Maisky who was now standing. "I guess we'll be able to eat out on this story for weeks!"

  "Quite extraordinary," Maisky said. "But I really don't understand what it is all about." He peered at Terrell. "Why do you imagine the car was hidden, Inspector?"

  Terrell muttered something, then walked to the door. This little, white-haired clergyman bored him.

  Tom came out of the bedroom. His white, drawn face sent a pang of fear through Sheila. The dope could yet spoil everything, she thought.

  "All set, Chief," Tom said.

  Sheila ran to him and kissed his cheek—something she hadn't done for as long as he could remember. Then, with a wifely gesture, she straightened his tie.

  "You won't keep him long, Chief," she said to Terrell. "He really is sick, but he's being awfully good about it."

  "We won't be long, Mrs. Whiteside."

  Terrell opened the front door, then, followed by Tom Beigler, went down the garden path.

  Sheila stood in the doorway and watched the three men get in the car. Then Lepski came down the road and joined them. As he slid under the wheel, Jacoby squeezed in at the back.

  The car drove away.

  "Very nicely done, my pretty," Maisky said as Sheila came into the living-room. "I couldn't have done better myself."

  She ignored him. Going to the cocktail cabinet, she poured out a stiff gin and drank it. Then shuddering, she put down the glass.

  "Just as long as that fool doesn't make a mistake," she said more to herself than to Maisky, then she went into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  * * *

  As the police car reached the path leading to the glade, Tom said, "This is it. Up that path . . . that's where I left the car."

  Lepski pulled up. He, Jacoby and Beigler spilled out of the car, drawing their guns, leaving the car doors hanging open. They started up the path, moving cautiously.

  Terrell got out, gun in hand.

  "Stay right here, Mr. Whiteside," he said. "This guy could be around, and he's dangerous." He followed the others up the path.

  Tom took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. His hands were shaking so badly, he had trouble in lighting his cigarette, but he was feeling more confident. The drive from the bungalow had been better than he had imagined it would be. Going with these policemen had given him, at first, the nightmare feeling of being arrested but, as it turned out, it wasn't like that at all.

  About the first words Terrell had said as the car moved off were, "I knew your dad . . . a fine man . . . I would say, he was the finest man we have ever had in this City. He took care of Carrie . . . that's my wife . . . when she was in real trouble. You have nothing to worry about. These things happen."

  Tom recalled his father. He must have been a very special type of man, he thought, and yet I never realised it. It's only when people as old as Terrell talked about him, he comes alive, and yet he was always decent to me . . . decent and understanding. I was just too goddamn dumb to appreciate him. He dragged hard on his cigarette. He thought of all that money buried in the garden. He must have been out of his mind to let Sheila dominate him. He should have told the police the moment he had found the carton in the boot. He moved uneasily. It was too late now. Well, he now made up his mind. He wasn't going to touch a dollar of that money. Sheila could take it all, and she could clear out. He drew in a long, deep breath. What a relief it would be to be rid of her! The past year had been the unhappiest he had ever lived through. Let her take the money and go!

  Ten minutes later, Jacoby came running down the path. He grabbed the telephone receiver in the car and started talking to headquarters.

  "We want Hess here and the squad," he said. "The dirt road between Miami and the City's highway. Hurry it up!"

  He then went back up the path. Tom continued to sit in the car. He smoked four cigarettes and waited another fifteen minutes before Terrell appeared.

  "The Buick's not there," Terrell said, "You are sure you left it in the glade?"

  Tom stiffened.

  "Yes, Chief. That's where we left it."

  "We've found his hideout . . . a cave, but no car."

  "That's where we left it."

  Two police cars came bumping down the dirt road and pulled up. Hess and his squad spilled out.

  "Go ahead, Fred. We've found his hide-out," Terrell pointed to the path. "Get your men working on it."

  Beigler, lighting a cigarette, joined Terrell.

  "We'll drive to the highway," Terrell said. They got in the car, Terrell sitting beside Tom. Five miles fast driving brought them to the parked Buick.

  "Well, here it is," Terrell said. They all got out and walked to the car. Beigler tried to open the boot, but it was locked. He looked at Tom. "Can you open it?"

  Tom nearly fell for this, but at the last split second, his mind became alive and he shook his bead.

  "I have an ignition key, but not the key to the boot."

  Beigler stared at him, then went to the pol
ice car, got a tyre lever from the tool box and returned to the Buick. He wrestled for a long moment, before he broke the lock. He lifted the lid of the boot.

  "Nothing," he said and then looked at Terrell. "Could be he swopped cars again, Chief."

  "Okay, Joe. Let's get back to headquarters. We can drop Mr. Whiteside on the way."

  They got in the police car and Beigler sent it shooting along the highway.

  "Maisky could have stashed the carton some place before he moved into the cave," Terrell said, speaking his thoughts aloud. "We know he couldn't have got the carton past the road blocks, but he's a bright boy. It is just possible he has hidden the carton somewhere and has got out. That sum of money is worth waiting for. He might be prepared to wait six months before coming back here and collecting the money."

  Beigler grunted. "We must be sure no one answering his description has left town without the carton."

  "More work," Beigler said. "Where could he hide a box that size?"

  "Any left-luggage office for a start. But he couldn't have handled it on his own. We'll get it on TV and the radio. Someone might have spotted him."

  Tom listened to all this, realising that these two didn't even suspect him of having the money. This was something, he thought, he found hard to believe, until he again thought of his father. It was his father as usual who gave him his background of respectability. Even from the grave, his father was casting a cloak of protection around him, and Tom felt ashamed.

  They pulled up outside his bungalow.

  "Okay, Mr. Whiteside. Thanks for your help," Terrell said. "We won't bother you now. Tomorrow, I'll want a statement from you." He regarded Tom's white, strained face. "I guess you should get to bed."

  "I think I'll do that," Tom said. "Whatever I ate is playing hell with me."

  As the police car drove away, Sheila opened the front door. Maisky was standing in the living-room doorway. Both of them were very tense.

  "Well?" Sheila asked as Tom came up the path.

  "It's okay so far," Tom said, moving past her. To Maisky, he went on, "They think you have hidden the carton somewhere and have left town."

  Maisky smiled.

  "Suppose we all have a cup of tea?" he said. "Get us some tea, my pretty. There is nothing like tea when you have had a shock."

  To Tom's surprise, Sheila went into the kitchen and put on the kettle.

  "We'll get away with this," Maisky said, sitting down and pressing his finger tips together. He beamed at Tom. "I have a feeling about it. You see . . . we'll get away with it."

  Tom went into the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, shed his jacket and dropped flat on the bed. He felt cold and sick. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  Later, he heard Sheila go into the sitting-room and the chink of tea cups. She came to the bedroom door.

  "Do you want tea?"

  Without opening his eyes, he shook his head.

  "Just leave me alone . . . will you?"

  "Don't act like a goddamn prima donna!" Sheila said furiously. "Pull yourself together! Don't just lie there!"

  He opened his eyes and stared at her. How could he have possibly loved this woman? he thought. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed.

  "I want you to get out of here as soon as it is safe to move the money," he said. "I've had enough of you. Take the money . . . take that little ape with you, but get out and leave me alone! I'm not touching a dollar of that money! Do you hear! All I want is to see the last of you!"

  She stared at him, startled, then she threw back her head in a strident laugh.

  "Mr. Cheapie to the end. Do you imagine I don't want to see the last of you, you poor creep? Okay, if that's the way you want it, it suits me fine. When our little pal thinks it is safe to go, I'll go too, but not before."

  Maisky listening to this smiled. Well, he thought, at least I now don't have to worry about the man. All I have to do is to watch this bitch.

  He nipped back to his chair as Sheila came down the passage.

  "Your tea is getting cold, my pretty," he said. "Did I hear you two arguing about something?"

  "Mind your own business!" Sheila snapped, taking her cup of tea. She walked to the window and stared out, her mind busy.

  Maisky stared at her, then shrugged. He walked to the TV Set and turned it on.

  "Oh, give it a rest, can't you?" Sheila said without turning.

  "Certainly not." Maisky consulted his watch. "It is time for the news. In our situation, my pretty, it is always well to keep up with the news."

  Halfway through the programme, the announcer said, "we have several items of news concerning the Casino robbery. As we announced last night, the police are still warning all banks and shops to look out for any $500 bills that might be offered for change. These bills must not be accepted unless the person offering them is known and the name and address of the owner written on the bill. The police are also . . ."

  She dropped her cup. It fell on the parquet floor, spilling the hot tea and smashing into pieces. Slowly, she put down the saucer, a cold fear gripping her heart.

  Marshall . . . the watch! Had he put her name on the bill she had given him? Had he?

  At the sound of the smashing cup, Maisky jerked around in his chair. He saw her expression of fear, the tightness of her mouth, her scared, glittering eyes and he knew at once she had spent one or more of the bills.

  He remained motionless for a long second, his face convulsed with rage, then, feeling his heart begin to hammer, he got slowly to his feet.

  "You bitch!" he said, his voice strangled. "You've spent some of the money . . . haven't you?"

  Sheila stepped back, shaken by the vicious expression on his thin face. He was suddenly transformed into a deadly, wild animal.

  "No!"

  "You're lying! You spent some of that money!"

  "I tell you I didn't!"

  He left the room, moving swiftly, and burst into the bedroom where Tom was lying on the bed.

  "Get up! Your whore has spent some of the money! What could she have bought?" Maisky's voice was shrill with rage. "Search the place! She's spent some of the money!"

  With a feeling of dread, Tom got off the bed.

  "She couldn't have . . . she's not that stupid," he said.

  Maisky glared around the room, then he rushed to the chest of drawers and pulled out the top drawer. The drawer fell to the floor and Maisky, muttering, half insane with rage and fear, upended it.

  The .25 automatic and the gold watch came into sight from between a pair of blue panties and a bra.

  * * *

  Beigler poured coffee into two paper cups. He passed one cup to Terrell, and then carried the other to his desk.

  "Look, Chief," he said as he sat down, "have you thought the Whitesides could have found the money and are sitting on it?"

  Terrell sipped the coffee and then began to load his pipe.

  "Not Tom Whiteside, Joe. We have to keep this thing in the right perspective. I've known his father for years . . . he was a saint."

  "Does that make his son a saint?" Beigler asked patiently.

  "All right, Joe . . . it doesn't, of course, but he's not the type. For one thing, he wouldn't know what to do with all that money."

  "But his wife would."

  Terrell scratched the side of his jaw and frowned at Beigler.

  "No, it still doesn't add up. It's my bet Maisky had another car. He moved the carton into this car, leaving the Buick. I think he's hidden the carton somewhere and has left town. He'll come back in three or four months."

  "Where do you imagine he has hidden the carton that size?" Beigler asked.

  "Could be anywhere . . . the beach . . . a left-luggage office . . . any damn place."

  Beigler sipped his coffee and rubbed the end of his thick nose. Watching him, Terrell recognised the signs, then he said, "The boot was locked, Joe." He was reading Beigler's mind. "Neither of the Whitesides could know the carton was in the boot."

  Beigler picked up t
he telephone receiver.

  "Charlie? Get me Mr. Locking of General Motors."

  Terrell put down his cup of coffee and regarded Beigler with worried eyes.