Armed... Dangerous...

by Brett Halliday

  Suddenly, looking into his eyes, she had the answer to the puzzle. They were both in trouble! They had to work together! It was obvious, it would solve everything. All she had to do was sell it to him.

  She kissed him lightly. “I must do something about this lipstick.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I care, my dear.”

  She left him on the sofa and looked at herself in the mirror over the bureau. She groaned. Her hair!

  She did what she could. Still naked, she went for drinks and cigarettes, then told him to hold still while she wiped some of the lipstick off his face.

  Finally he sat up. She gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. He filled his lungs with smoke and breathed it out slowly.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  And that, it seemed, was to be his only remark on what had happened.

  He swung his long legs off the sofa and pulled on his shirt. He fitted the button of his hearing-aid into his ear and dropped the battery case into his shirt pocket. She poured whiskey into a glass for him without ice.

  “Somehow,” she said, “all at once I find it extraordinarily difficult to remember your name.”

  “It’ll come back.”

  “No, when I washed my hair I washed it out of my brain.” She laughed. “No, perhaps you are right. Names are easy to forget only when they are not important.”

  She drank, while the laughter faded out of her eyes. “I think you are not much of a sentimental person, my friend. This encounter was pleasant, exciting perhaps, but it has no bearing on what you must do now.”

  She pulled his hand so the back of his wrist touched her breast. Holding his hand in both of hers, she moved it slightly. The little friction made her shiver.

  “You will stay with me tonight. I think you will stay awake drinking and making love as often as it pleases you, and all the time you will be thinking of your problem. What will you do with me? I am a girl who knows your name, who saw you shoot a detective.”

  He stirred and she said quickly, “I am putting myself in your head, wondering what lies I must tell you to make you let me go. And I can think of none. What I must do, then, is simple—tell the truth.”

  “Don’t go that far,” he said. “You might bust something.”

  “No, I have just realized that I can help you. How hard will it be to place those diamonds, for example?”

  He grunted. “Not easy.”

  “Did you really find out about Melnick from a mistake on the telephone?”

  “Hell, no. I didn’t want him to wonder about it. I had a tip from a guy in his workroom.”

  “And perhaps he will think of that person, and then if the police are clever they can get your name.”

  He shot her a sharp look, took his hand away from her breast and drank slowly.

  She went on, “The thing for you to do, my dear, is take an airplane to some distant country, where the jewelers will not ask you if anyone was killed because of these diamonds. To do that you will need money. You will need a passport. I will get you both. All you must do for me in return is touch me lovingly from time to time, and help in a little adventure of my own.”

  “Don’t try to con me, baby,” he said harshly. “I’m in no mood.”

  “To be specific: fifteen thousand dollars. Half to be paid tomorrow, half the day after. An airplane to Portugal. Meanwhile, concealment.”

  “And what do you want me to do, knock over a bank?”

  “Not a bank, darling,” she said seriously. “Say you will consider and I tell you.”

  “At your service,” he said humorously.

  “It is real, I assure you. We plan to steal a truck. It will be escorted by two armed policemen. At the most, three. But there will be five of you, and with luck there will be no shooting.”

  He gave a quick cough of laughter. “You can do better than that. Take your time. We’ve got all night.”

  “Apparently you do not believe me?”

  “I don’t believe in Santa Claus, either. You’re mixed up in something, that much I’ll give you. Nobody carries eight hundred bucks in cash without a reason. And there was something off about that phone call. But a heist?” he said scornfully. “You? Stealing a truck? How dumb do you think I am?”

  Turning, he put his hand against her bare stomach. She sucked in her breath and her breasts rose toward him. A tingling started in odd places, including the soles of her feet.

  “I wouldn’t knock you off, baby,” he said. “Let’s stick together till your plane goes. Of course, I know you can always fly back, or call the cops long distance. But I’ll be out of sight by that time. It’s OK.”

  He was smiling slightly, making no real effort to make it sound convincing. She tried to ignore the little tinglings he had started.

  “Listen to me—”

  “Where have you got the Chevy, downstairs?”

  “Yes, where the cars are parked. Darling, you must listen to me for one minute.”

  But he had tuned her out, as though by switching off the battery in his shirt pocket. He took the wallet out of his hip pocket and counted the money he had taken from Melnick, frowning. She could see that he didn’t consider it enough.

  “Wait a bit longer,” she said. “Then there is a way I can convince you. I will take you to a place to meet the others. Can you lose anything by finding out? Naturally I do not make a habit of stealing trucks. It is new in my experience. But this is a special truck. It carries a valuable cargo. I made a plan, secured a backer, hired a person to recruit others. They will carry it out. I myself risk little. If it fails, I return to France no worse off than before.”

  At last she had his attention. She continued: “During these two weeks, you understand, I am not in New York. I am visiting friends near Nice. Anyone who says I am in New York is a liar.”

  “Who rented this apartment?”

  “Someone with no idea at all that it is being used at present. I rented the car myself, using my passport. As I told you before you decided to listen, the passport is in the name of an imaginary person.”

  He poured himself more whiskey, turning over what she had said. “So if anything goes wrong, you’ll be drinking rum punches on a beach in France someplace.”

  “That is why I am willing to pay fifteen thousand dollars for thirty minutes’ work. But nothing will go wrong.”

  He snorted. “With five people things are bound to go wrong. Look at what happened tonight. A simple little stickup, with automatic elevators and no doorman. So I had to get on a subway train with the one son of a bitch in New York who would recognize me. A traffic cop had to be tagging a car outside the front door for a parking violation. A couple of delivery jerks had to bring in a piano at half past five in the afternoon. A piano! That’s three things that couldn’t happen again in a hundred years, and they all happened inside of an hour.”

  “Granted. But let us be very very careful and we can lengthen the odds. If you are interested, and I think to be realistic you have to be interested, I will go over the plan and let you suggest improvements.”

  “What do you mean, to be realistic? I don’t need anybody. I never have.”

  She put her hand on his. “All I want you to do is think about it.”

  “What’s in the truck?” he said after a moment.

  She could see that he was half-persuaded, but she could not risk stepping on some hidden prejudice. “That, I am afraid, is none of your business.”

  His eyebrows came together. She decided it was time for a flare of temper of her own. “Truly! Put yourself in my situation. There are things I must reserve. A truck, X, will proceed along a certain street, Y. Why should it matter to you what is in it?”

  He gave a grudging grunt. “What looks really fishy—two days before something like this you don’t start looking for an extra man.”

  “How very true,” she said dryly. “Before I left France I was given the name of a person to approach. He was said to be excellent. I could tell him how many others
I wanted, with what specialties, and he would find them for me. He did this. But he is a man with one fault—he becomes quarrelsome when drinking. Never mind, no one is perfect. And he is no longer one of us. He is in jail, awaiting trial for fighting in a bar. A person of no consequence was injured. We have been wondering—can we do it with four? The answer is yes, but with danger. The plan was for five. And now suddenly here you are, perfect for it! You have reasons to be careful, you will not become drunk in a bar. On top of all your other qualities”—she smiled—“you make love marvelously.”

  He came close to returning the smile. “It wasn’t too bad. Where have you got these guys?”

  “One is a girl. When everything becomes quiet I take you there.”

  He took an ice cube in his mouth along with the bourbon and crunched it between his powerful jaws. “I don’t say I like it,” he said. “I’ve always been one man. Even that can get complicated, but bring in five people and everything’s multiplied. I’ll look it over. It could be an out. I don’t say it is. It could be. Just don’t try to maneuver me, that’s all.”

  Reaching out suddenly, he took the back of her neck in a powerful grip. She went with the pressure, knowing that for the moment she had nothing to fear.

  “Because what have I got to lose?” he said in a tone that was almost tender. He released her and continued, “If you want to back out of that story, do it now. This guy who got pulled in for brawling, so you’d have a spot open—that’s too damn convenient.”

  “Convenient or not, it happened.”

  “OK, it happened. Now what about Portugal? Why Portugal?”

  “Because that is where the plane goes. Darling, one step at a time. Meet these people, let us tell you more about what we plan. Sometime tomorrow we will go over the actual ground. You will agree that it can work. If I have told you a single lie so far, one, you may put your revolver to my head and pull the trigger. We must wait here some hours. There is more whiskey. There is the television. Perhaps there is a program you wish to watch, unless you have a better idea of how to use the time.”

  He gave her a penetrating look under lowered brows. “I hope this is on the level, kid. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  She shivered slightly, and the shiver set the tingling going again. She shouldn’t let him affect her this much. It was out of proportion. She was a cool, self-possessed girl who knew what was important and what was not important. She had plans for the future. He was a gunman, a killer. If she had to take him to Portugal, never mind, she would drop him in a hurry once she arrived. But why had nobody, out of all the people who had made love to her, ever made her react in just this way?

  “Damn you, are you going to kiss me?” she said.

  CHAPTER 4

  From the basement corridor, they went up a short ramp to the delivery entrance. Even after several hours together, he still trusted her exactly as much as before, which was to say, not at all. The back door was unguarded. Keeping a firm grip on her arm, he took her to her parked convertible. There was no activity anywhere in the parking area. He wedged his big frame into the cramped space behind the front seat. He had his gun out, and he made sure that she saw him press the muzzle against the back of the driver’s seat. She nodded. To signal a policeman and try to jump from a moving automobile was hardly her type of thing, gun or no gun.

  She covered him with a robe. After turning on the lights and starting the motor, she reported in a conversational tone, “No sign of anybody.”

  She cramped her wheels and eased out of the parking slot. A police car was parked outside on Central Park West. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she passed, and then watched the mirror. The police car stayed where it was.

  “I think we are OK,” she said after several blocks. “In a moment I start into the park.”

  A red light stopped her at Eighty-sixth Street. When the light changed, she blinked for a left turn and plunged into Central Park. There was no one behind her.

  “Now come up to breathe, darling.”

  McQuade emerged. Putting his gun away, he swung over into the front seat, where he forced a pocket comb through his rough black hair.

  “Would you like to drive?” she asked innocently. “No, you wish to watch me, not the road. I think you still do not altogether trust me.”

  “No, I do not altogether trust you,” he said in a parody of her accent.

  She continued east. After leaving Central Park she headed for the entrance to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. This took them downtown. They crossed the river on the Manhattan Bridge. From there it was all expressways. After crossing the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge to Staten Island she left the Staten Island Expressway at the third interchange and headed north toward St. George. McQuade, she noticed, was watching the turns closely. To prove to herself that she was no longer worried about his gun, she made several unnecessary twisting detours.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said suspiciously.

  “Certainly. I have been congratulated on my exquisite sense of direction. Here we are, then, in the wilds of Staten Island, and I think it is safe to tell you something more about what is to happen. It is to take place in Manhattan, the day after tomorrow. On Sixth Avenue, at the corner of Twenty-seventh Street. A boy named Billy, who is clever with machines, will change the stoplight at that corner so it can be worked by a small button. Very well. The truck approaches. The light turns. We then create a small disturbance, a diversion, so two of you, you and Billy, will have no difficulty getting into the truck to drive it away. The traffic goes in one direction only on the cross streets. You will go the wrong way. We will arrange matters so the street will be clear. Then a warehouse, where the truck is unloaded. You drive a few more blocks, leave the motor running and walk away. After that, Portugal.”

  “You’re leaving some big gaps.”

  “But naturally. Before it happens in real life, we go over it many, many times.”

  “What kind of truck, or is that one of the things you want to keep from me?”

  “A sanitation truck, my dear. I have a uniform which I hope will fit you. And I think we must borrow one of those trucks tomorrow so you will know exactly what to push and what to pull.”

  “No problem,” McQuade growled. “I was driving heavy equipment before you started going out with boys.”

  “This is better and better. One of my people says he has experience driving trucks, but I have been doubtful. He is something of a boaster.”

  “Fine. Just what we need.”

  “He was hired to use a gun. Actually he shoots well. This I have seen.”

  “That’s the ticket—shoot a few more cops, make ourselves popular.”

  She glanced at him. “It may be necessary, you know. But only if you must.”

  “Jesus! For a garbage truck!”

  She gave a mocking laugh. “Later I will tell you what kind of garbage. On the plane, perhaps—yes, on the plane. We turn in ahead here. Someone should be watching the driveway.”

  A stone wall, six feet high, topped with splinters of glass in cement, ran along one side of the road. Presently Michele turned through a gap where there had once been a gate; only the hinges remained. As she came to a halt, the beam of a three-cell flashlight darted out of the underbrush and hit her in the eyes.

  “Hi,” a voice said after a moment.

  A boy of eighteen or nineteen, in a short-sleeved sports shirt and tight white levis, came out near the front fender. He was carrying a shotgun as well as the flashlight.

  “We thought you’d be here earlier, Michele. I’ll call the house and tell them it’s you.”

  “Billy, here is a new man. His name is Frank. He knows how to drive a truck, among other things.”

  “Hey!” the boy said. “That takes a weight off. My opinion of Spaghetti, he’s ninety percent mouth. If he can get into one of those trucks, sight unseen, and not do something wrong, so can my aged grandmother.”

  He pointed the long flashlight
past Michele. McQuade stared back into the beam, his eyes slitted. “Well, hi,” Billy said approvingly.

  After the flashlight turned away McQuade said, “Now let’s see you, kid.”

  The boy turned the light on himself, holding it directly beneath his chin. This threw grotesque shadows across the upper part of his face. To distort his appearance further, he goggled his eyes and grinned idiotically.

  “What, me worry?”

  Michele laughed. “Ring them up, Billy, and come with us. We can show Frank the plan quicker than tell him.”

  “I want to see Spaghetti’s face when you say he’s not driving. He’s been going around like a four-star general.”

  Billy crouched beside an Army field telephone and cranked it twice. When he had an answer he said simply, “Michele.”

  After ringing off, he rigged an electric eye to point across the gap at knee level. He came around to the door on McQuade’s side.

  “If there’s room.”

  McQuade moved. The driveway was lined on both sides with fine maples, the space between them choked with underbrush. The roadbed needed maintenance, and the Chevy scraped its oil pan once or twice, though Michele drove slowly. The house was a quarter of a mile away, a great rambling structure, topped with gables and cupolas and ornamented with scrollwork, in the style of the 1890’s.

  Michele parked at the foot of the front steps. As they crossed the wide porch, a girl inside began to scream.

  Michele had been under tension for the last few hours, and her heart gave a sudden jump. Now what? Couldn’t she leave these miserable creatures alone for two minutes?

  “Think you can tease me, you white bitch?” a man shouted hoarsely.

  “Don’t! You can’t make me!”

  “Oh, yes, I can make you. Yes, indeed. What I’m going to do to you, honey, I’m going to lay you six different ways and you’re going to love every minute!”