'A moment, please.' The elderly man used the telephone, muttered, listened, then hung up.
'Mr. Vance will see you, Mr. Lucas. First floor. Room 2. Your room is on the fourth floor. Number twelve. If you will leave your bag, I'll have it taken to your room.'
Mike took the elevator to the first floor. These days, he spared himself every unnecessary effort. He found climbing stairs now gave him a sharp pain in his side. Today was a bad day. It was probably due to the flight and humping his bag. He was confident that tomorrow, he wouldn't be as bad.
He knew he had this deadly thing gnawing away inside him. The pain came and went. There were days when he tried to assure himself he wasn't going to die in a few months, but on leaving the airport, when the sharp teeth of pain bit into him, he accepted the fact that he was kidding himself.
He knocked on the door of Room 2, and a querulous voice shouted for him to come in.
Opening the door, he entered a small sitting room, shabby but comfortable, a room in which the very old could relax while waiting to die.
Lu Brady sat in a wheelchair. Looking at him, Mike saw a small, thin man who was apparently nudging eighty years of age.
Brady's disguise was yet another of his masterpieces. The shock of white hair, the big white moustache, the pinched nostrils, the dry wrinkled skin had Maggie completely fooled. Brady had told her to come to the Seaview Hotel where there was a reservation for her in the name of Stella Jacques, and she was to ask for Mr. Vance. When Maggie had arrived the previous afternoon and had come to Room 2, she had stared at this old man in the wheelchair, then flustered, she had exclaimed, 'Oh, excuse me! I guess I've come to the wrong room,' and began to back out.
'Come on in, honey, and take your pants off,' Brady said in his normal voice.
Maggie was so shocked she didn't think this was at all funny. It took Brady quite a time to soothe her down and convince her this old cripple, patting her, was really the love of her life.
Finally, he got her down to business. He had told her the following morning the man who was to play such an important part in the hotel robbery would be arriving.
'I want you to stay in the bedroom, Maggie,' Brady said. 'Keep the door half open and listen. I want you to make sure you can work with this man, as I am going to make sure. Haddon tells me he is okay, but he's an amateur. He has no record, and I distrust amateurs. If he lets us down, loses his nerve, we are both in real trouble. Listen to his voice, and to what he says, then come in and take a long look at him. If you are nervous of him, run your fingers through your hair. If you feel sure you can work with him, then say so.'
Maggie, looking pop-eyed, nodded.
'This is a big deal, isn't it, Lu? I'm a bit worried. I wouldn't want to go to jail, but if you say it's going to be okay, then it's okay with me.'
'You won't go to jail, baby, nor will I.'
Maggie began stroking Brady's hand.
'You know something, honey? I've never been screwed by a man of eighty. Shall we try?'
Brady laughed. 'No. It's taken me three hours to fix this disguise. I'm not having you chewing me to bits. Go, cool off.'
Standing in the doorway, Mike regarded this old man in the wheelchair. He was as fooled as Maggie had been and he thought, 'God! Is this decrepit old creep the man I have to work with?'
While Mike was staring, Brady was also staring with cold, searching eyes, then he began to relax. This was quite a man, he thought. Not only tough, but he oozed discipline. Haddon had said he was an army sergeant. This wasn't a man who would lose his nerve. The sunken eyes bothered Brady, but the firm mouth and the strong jaw line balanced out the eyes.
'I'm Mike Bannion,' the man said. 'Mr. Vance?'
'Come in and sit down,' Brady said.
He waited until Bannion had closed the door and had sat in a chair near where Brady's wheelchair was positioned.
'So you're Mike Bannion,' Brady said in his old man's voice. 'Tell me about yourself.'
Mike looked directly at Brady. There was something phony about this old man. This he felt instinctively.
'I'm here to do a job,' he said. 'You don't want to know about me as I don't want to know about you. What's the job?'
Brady liked this. This big soldier obviously meant business, he told himself, but he decided to probe further.
'I've been told you are a good shot. How good a shot are you?'
'Suppose we stop this crap?' Mike said. 'Tell whoever it is in the other room to come on out. Let's get down to business.'
Maggie came from the bedroom, paused to regard Mike, then clasped her hands.
'What a gorgeous hunk of man!' she exclaimed.
Brady laughed, seeing Mike was staring at Maggie.
'Let's all have a drink,' he said, and getting from his wheelchair, he walked to the bottles lined up on the table.
'This is Maggie. She's working with us. What'll you have, Mike?'
Stunned by the sudden activity of an old cripple and by the sight of Maggie, looking her sexiest, Mike just gaped. Then pulling himself together, he got to his feet.
'Scotch?' Brady asked.
'What the hell is all this?' Mike demanded.
'Have a Scotch, Mike,' Brady said, pouring a big shot. 'Maggie, you had better lay off. I know Scotch ruins your concentration. Give Mike his drink while I make mine.'
Maggie took the glass and crossed to Mike.
'Here you are, big man,' she said.
He took the glass, thinking he had never seen such a sexy looking woman. His mind was in a slight daze, then seeing Brady was waving him to a chair, he sat down.
'Okay, Mike, sorry to have conned you, but I wanted to be sure you were the right man for the job,' Brady said as he sat in his wheelchair. 'I'm satisfied.'
He looked at Maggie. 'How about you?'
Maggie sighed. 'Oh yes. He's all gorgeous muscle!'
Brady laughed. 'You'll have to get used to Maggie. It took me time to get used to her myself.'
By now, Mike had recovered from the shock of seeing this aged man behave like a thirty year old and from Maggie's impact.
'Mr. Vance,' he said in his curt military voice, 'I asked what this job is.'
Maggie moaned softly. 'Isn't that a wonderful voice?' she said, fluttering her eyelashes.
'Maggie, will you shut up?' Brady snapped, then turning to Mike, he went on, 'Here's what we are going to do. I'm acting as a cripple, Maggie is my nurse, you are my chauffeur.' He paused, then asked, 'You've got the uniform?'
'I've got it.'
'Fine. Here's the dope.' For the next twenty minutes, Brady explained the details of the steal.
'Your job is to put the guards out of action if they show up. You will use a dart gun,' Brady concluded and signalled to Maggie who went into the bedroom and returned with the gun.
'There must be no mistake,' Brady went on as Mike examined the gun. 'It isn't lethal. No one dies. The trick is to get the dart into the necks of the guards. That's your job, then you help me to unload the boxes from the safe and for this you get paid fifty thousand dollars.'
Mike nodded. 'Right. You asked me if I was a good shot,' he said. 'That's a fair enough question when it involves fifty thousand dollars.'
He looked around the room. 'That picture on the wall.' He pointed to a copy of an impressionist in faded colors. It hung some twenty feet from where he was sitting. 'The boy on the left: his right eye . . . get it?'
Both Brady and Maggie turned to stare at the painting. For the first time, they were aware that it was on the wall.
Mike lifted the gun. His movement was swift and confident. There was a plopping sound as he squeezed the trigger.
'Take a look,' he said.
Brady left his wheelchair, crossed the room and peered at the painting. In the right eye of the boy was the drugged dart.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The time was 11.40. The waiters of the Spanish Bay Hotel were circulating around the big swimming pool with trays of various cocktail
s responding to the flicking fingers of the rich who lay in the sun chairs. The waiters were followed by well trained boys carrying trays of delicious canapes. Wilbur Warrenton had had his morning swim. By his side, his wife, Maria, in a bikini, was reading a novel.
Swimming in the morning was not for her. Her make up and hair style were so elaborate, she swam only in the evening when she could spend an hour or more restoring the ravages of water before a late dinner.
Wilbur had finished his second dry martini. He was feeling relaxed. So far, his honeymoon had been a success. The hotel was everything it claimed to be. The service was impeccable and the cuisine was as good as any of the three star Paris restaurants. The one small cloud on the otherwise sunny horizon was Maria's increasing complaints. Utterly spoilt, she was the kind of woman who always found some fault, whatever luxury was provided.
Her present complaint was there were too many old people residing at the hotel. Wilbur pointed out that the Spanish Bay was the most expensive real estate in the world. Only the most wealthy could afford to stay there.
'We're lucky my father is paying for us, Maria,' he said, 'otherwise we wouldn't be here.'
Maria had sniffed. 'It's like living in a graveyard.'
'We can always move. Would you like that? We could go to the Rivage where there are young people.'
'The Rivage? Are you crazy? It's a slum!'
Wilbur, glancing at his watch, stood up. 'I'm just going to call Dad.'
Maria frowned. 'Oh, God! Not again? Do you have to telephone him every day?'
'He likes a chat,' Wilbur said. 'I won't be long.' He strode away while Maria shrugged and returned to her novel.
Wilbur also liked a brief talk with his father, and he knew the old man looked forward to telling his son the daily business happenings. Wilbur knew his father was lonely, and was longing for him to return to Dallas and to provide him with grandchildren. Uneasily, Wilbur had told Maria that his father had bought a deluxe house for them, fully furnished, with staff, two cars, swimming pool and a small park. In fact, everything money could buy.
'Who wants to live in a hole like Dallas?' she had demanded crossly. 'After our honeymoon, I want to go to Paris and Venice.'
'I'll be working in Dallas, Maria,' Wilbur said, patiently. 'You'll like it. I've seen the house. It's really wonderful! We'll go to Paris later.'
She had given him her stubborn stare and had said nothing.
Taking the elevator to his penthouse suite, Wilbur entered the living room and put a call through to Dallas. In a few minutes, he was talking to his father.
'Hi, son!' Silas Warrenton's bass voice boomed over the line. 'How's it going?'
'Fine, Dad, and you?'
'Plenty of business. Dow Jones is up for a change. I've just sold a parcel of stock, got me a nice profit. I'm lunching with a couple of Arabs, big shots in their neck of the woods, but peanuts to me. They are trying to promote a deal. If I get it on my terms, could be worth real money.'
'Good for you, Dad.'
'Well, this old codger keeps the pot boiling.' A pause, then, 'How's your wife?' Silas seldom called Maria by her name.
'Fine, Dad.'
'Got her pregnant yet?'
Wilbur forced a laugh. 'Give us time, Dad. Maria wants to see a bit of the world before embarking on a family.'
He heard his father give a grunt of disapproval. 'Don't leave it too long, son. I'm not getting any younger. When are you coming home?'
'Oh, in about a couple of weeks.'
'I've got all kinds of interesting things lined up for you. I want you to take some of the work load off my back, son. Did you tell your wife about the house? I took a look at it. It's pretty fancy.'
'Sure, Dad, I told her.' Wilbur struggled to put enthusiasm into his voice. 'She's pleased.'
Again the grunt. 'So she should be. It cost three million.' A pause, then, 'Well, enjoy yourself, son. I've got a board meeting in a moment, and you'll be on that board with me pretty soon. So long, son, take care, and Silas hung up.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Anita Certes had been finishing Maria's bathroom when Wilbur had walked in and began talking to his father. Hurriedly, she had pushed the door to and listened. The one-sided telephone conversation didn't give her any information except that the easy warmth of Wilbur's voice told her that what she had heard from the staff gossip was true, that Silas Warrenton, enormously rich, and his son were fond of each other. One of the Cuban waiters who serviced the penthouse had told her from what he had overheard, the old man longed for grandchildren. 'That rich bitch won't play. I heard them arguing in the bedroom. She's too selfish to have children. The son will take over the oil kingdom. He'll be worth billions when the old man croaks,' the waiter had told her.
Anita had had no sleep. She had spent hours in the stuffy forward cabin of Manuel Torres' fishing vessel, talking. First, she had begged Fuentes to help Pedro. He had shrugged.
'What can I do? The cops are looking for me!' he had said, his voice shrill. 'If I could raise some money, I'd go back to Havana, but I'm stuck.'
'You will be safe here,' Manuel said. 'I don't desert my friends.'
'Isn't my husband your friend?' Anita demanded.
'His friend,' Manuel said, nodding at Fuentes. 'Not mine.'
Fuentes waved his hands in despair. 'I can't do a thing! Don't you understand? The cops have got him! He's wounded. What can I do?'
Leaning forward, her eyes burning, Anita told him.
The two men listened while she talked, then suddenly, Fuentes interrupted, 'This is crazy talk!' he exploded. 'You're out of your head! Go away! Don't come here again! You're mad!'
Manuel laid a restraining hand on Fuentes' arm. 'I can see possibilities,' he said. 'Let us examine this idea. Calm yourself.'
'It's crazy talk!'
'Nothing involving five million dollars is crazy talk to me. Calm yourself.'
Anita watched the two men. She had expected opposition. Fuentes was stupid, but she could tell that Manuel was nibbling at the bait she was dangling. She regarded him: big, powerful, with a bushy black beard, a completely bald head and small, cruel eyes. If she could only convince him, she felt confident he would handle her plan well.
Manuel looked at her. 'Let me understand this,' he said. 'Your idea is for us to take over the penthouse suite at the hotel and hold Warrenton and his wife for ransom?'
'That is my plan,' Anita said quietly. 'Warrenton is worth billions. His father loves him. A five million ransom would mean nothing to him.'
'And how do we take over the penthouse?' Manuel asked.
'I tell you she's crazy!' Fuentes shouted angrily. 'I know the hotel. There, they have security guards! Take over the penthouse . . . crazy talk!'
Manuel patted Fuentes' arm. 'My friend, I ask you to keep quiet. Let us listen. Five million dollars! Think what that would mean.' Looking at Anita, he again asked, 'And how do we take over the penthouse?'
'Through me,' Anita said. 'I work at the hotel. There's nothing I don't know about the security, how to reach the penthouse, how to avoid the guards and the house detective.'
She turned to Fuentes. 'The cops are looking for you. Are you going to stay in this cabin for months? Can't you realize that once in the penthouse you can ask for anything -- food, drink, cigarettes . . . anything -- and because you hold the Warrentons, the hotel will give you what you ask for. Then when the ransom is handed over, taking the Warrentons as hostages, we all leave for home with five million dollars.'
Fuentes gaped at her, then looked uneasily at Manuel. 'Yes. Maybe,' he said slowly. 'You are sure you can get us into the penthouse?'
Anita began to relax. Another fish was nibbling at her bait. 'I can,' she said. 'I have duplicates of the keys to the staff door and the penthouse.'
'You have?' Manuel said sharply. 'How did you get them?'
Sometime in the past, Pedro had told her, 'Always have duplicates of hotel keys. You never know when you might need them.' And he had
told her how to make a wax impression and he had arranged to get the keys cut.
'That is my business,' she said. 'I have them.'
Fuentes looked at Manuel.
'What do you think?'
'I like it. We will need a third man. We don't know how long we will be penned up in that place. We have to sleep. One on, one off is dangerous. We will need a third man.'
'I will be the third man,' Anita said.
Manuel shook his head.
'No. It is better for you to keep out of this.'
'I will be the third man,' Anita said firmly. 'Before long, the cops will find out the name of my husband. They will come after me, and I will lose my job. When that happens, there will be no way for you to reach the penthouse. This has to be done quickly.'
Manuel thought about this, then nodded.
'She makes sense,' he said to Fuentes. 'Let me think carefully about this plan of yours, Mrs. Certes. Tomorrow night, come here and I will tell you if we will do this.'
'Not later than tomorrow night.'
'Tomorrow night. It will be either yes or no,' Manuel said.
She had them hooked, she thought, then looking directly at Manuel, she said, 'Now listen. I will get you into the penthouse on one condition.'
Both men looked suspiciously at her.
'And what is the condition?' Manuel asked.
'I don't want any of the ransom money. Whatever you get is for you two to divide, but the ransom demand must include the release and safe conduct of Pedro to come with us when we take the hostages to Havana. If you don't agree to this condition, I will not get you into the penthouse.'
Fuentes again exploded. 'I told you she was crazy!' he screamed at Manuel. 'Pedro is wounded! He could be dying! The cops will never release him! He has killed twice! This is mad talk!'
'Shut up!' Manuel barked, losing patience. 'Now Mrs. Certes, this is a very difficult condition, but not impossible. Once we get into the penthouse and are in control, then we will be able to dictate terms. I promise you I will do my best to have your husband with us when we leave. I am a man of my word. I am known as a man of truth. I give you my promise, but it will be difficult.'
'Manuel Torres,' Anita said, her eyes hard and cold, 'I am not a stupid woman. My only thought is to have back Pedro, the light of my life. When the time comes, and if I am not satisfied that they will release Pedro, then I will kill that rich South American bitch and will kill Warrenton too, unless they do agree to release Pedro. This is what you will tell them, and if they don't believe you, then I will also tell them and they will believe me!'
Have a Nice Night Page 5
