A few seconds later, he slowed the car and then edged it off the track, bumping over the hard, dry ground into a small glade which he had discovered during his thorough search of the district for a safe hide. Here, he had already built a canopy of tree branches and uprooted shrubs: a task that had taken him several days. Under this canopy, he drove the Buick. Getting out, he took from the boot the water containers, paused long enough to assure himself that he was completely on his own, then, walking at a steady pace, he moved out of the glade, brushing through the undergrowth, and climbed a path that led to a tree- covered hill.
A two-minutes slow walk, leaving him slightly breathless, brought him to a mass of dead wood, branches and brown leaves. He pulled some of the branches aside, then, ducking under them, he moved into a dark, dank-smelling cave, completely hidden by the camouflage of branches he had erected during the past week.
He paused in the cave to get his breath back. He was a little disturbed that he was so breathless, and there was a small, but ominous pain nagging in his chest. He set down the water con tainers, then waited. A few minutes later, he began to breathe more freely, and he took out his flashlight and turned the powerful beam around the cave.
Well, he thought, I can't expect miracles. I am getting old. I am doing too much, but at least, so far, everything is going the way I have planned it.
He swung the beam of the flashlight on the sleeping bag, the stores of provisions, the transistor radio and the medical chest: the necessities he had put in this small cave for a six-weeks' stay.
He went to the entrance of the cave to listen, then, satisfied that he was entirely on his own, he went down to the car to collect the rest of the things he had brought with him. Once again, he made his journey up to the cave, moving more slowly, feeling the growing heat of the sun now on his back as he climbed the hill.
Again he checked the contents of the cave to satisfy himself that he had forgotten nothing. Then nodding, he went outside, and very carefully arranged the tree branches to hide completely the entrance.
He went down to the Buick, got in, looked up at the mass of branches and dead leaves that shielded his hideout, nodded his approval, then, reversing the car, he drove back to his bungalow at Seacombe.
Lana Evans opened her eyes, blinked at the sunlight coming through the yellow blind, moaned a little, and then turned over, hugging the pillow to her. But in a few moments she was wide awake. She sat up in bed and looked at the bedside clock. The time was ten minutes after nine o'clock.
She flicked back the sheet, swung her legs to the floor and went into the bathroom. Her toilet completed, she came back into the dreary little sleeping-cum-living-room and went to the chest of drawers. From under her meagre stock of linen, she took out a roll of $100 bills. She got back to bed and surveyed her fortune. She felt the blood move through her with excitement mixed with fear. Suppose someone at the Casino found out what she had told this little man? She was now certain he was planning to rob the Casino. She looked at the money and forced herself to shrug her shoulders. After all, the Casino could afford to lose money. They were stinking rich and she . . .
Then she moved uneasily, frowning. How to explain to Terry how she had suddenly acquired all this money? That wasn't going to be easy. Terry was jealous. He suspected every man working at the Casino was after her . . . in a way, he was right, they were, but she wasn't after them. This, he found difficult to believe. She would have to be very careful how she explained to him about her sudden wealth. The money, exciting at first, now began to worry her. She got out of bed and re-hid the money under the freshly laundered bed linen.
She went over to the window and drew up the blind. She looked down at the distant sea, the sun reflecting on the still, blue water and the sailing boats with their yellow and red sails moving out of the harbour.
If only she could tell Terry the truth, she thought, but he was so dreadfully correct. No, this was something she had to keep to herself. She got back into bed and her eyes alighted on the box of Diana hand cream. She picked it up and undid the wrapping.
He may be a crook, she thought, but he has style.
She no longer believed in the New Yorker myth. He had given her two thousand dollars - an enormous sum to her - for information which she had given him. This was a transaction that would ride rough shod over her conscience for the rest of her life. But this little box of hand cream - the de luxe of de luxe hand creams - must mean that there was a lot of kindness in him, even if he had lied, bribed and corrupted her.
She unscrewed the cap and regarded the white cream ointment that smelt faintly of crushed orchids. With infinite care and with pleasure she spread the deadly cream over her hands. But she found herself a little depressed that this luxury treatment didn't give her the pleasure she hoped it would. Her mind was too occupied. She put the cap back on the jar and the jar back on the bedside table. She began again to concentrate on the problem of how to convince Terry that there was no man involved in her sudden wealth.
Later, still worrying, she shut her eyes and dozed. She kept telling herself that it would work out all right and she would convince Terry. Sometime this afternoon, she would go to an Estate Agent and inquire about a one-room apartment.
An hour later, not aware that she had fallen asleep, she woke with a sudden start, feeling surprisingly cold. Puzzled, she looked at the bedside clock to see it was now twenty minutes to eleven. She thought of a cup of coffee, but she now had no inclination to get out of bed. She not only felt chilly, but lazy and torpid. This growing feeling of chill alerted her . . . was she becoming ill? Then suddenly, without warning, bile rushed into her mouth and, before she could control the spasm, she vomited over the bedclothes. She felt her hands had turned to fire.
Alarmed, she tried to throw off the bedclothes and get out of bed, but the effort was too much for her.
Her body was now icy cold and clammy and yet her hands burned, and there was a terrible burning sensation in her throat.
What is happening to me? she thought, terrified. Her heart was racing and she had difficulty in breathing.
She forced herself out of bed, but her legs wouldn't support her. She folded up on the floor, her hand vainly reaching towards the telephone that stood on a near-by table.
She opened her mouth to scream for help, but a disgusting, evilsmelling bile choked her, rising into her mouth, down her nostrils and on to her pink, shortie nightdress.
The black, sleek Persian cat who she fed as a routine of love every morning came to the open window thirty minutes later. The cat paused expectantly, regarded the still body lying in a patch of sunlight, twitched its whiskers, then dropped from the window into the room with a solid plop of paws.
With the selfish indifference that is natural to a cat, it walked purposefully to the refrigerator in the kitchen. It sat before the refrigerator, waiting with anxious impatience.
* * *
At eight-thirty p.m. Harry Lewis left his office, took the red velvet-lined elevator down to the second floor, nodding to the boy who ran the elevator.
The boy, immaculate in the bottle-green and cream uniform of the Casino, his hands in white cotton gloves, his tanned face shiny, ducked his head, gratified to be recognised.
This was Lewis's favourite hour when the Casino began to come alive. He liked nothing better than to go out on to the big, overhanging balcony and look down on the terrace below, where his clients were drinking, talking and relaxing before going to the restaurant and then into the gambling rooms.
The full moon made the sea a glittering, still lake of silver. It was a warm night with a slight breeze that moved the palm trees, surrounding the terrace.
He stood for a long moment, his hands resting on the balustrade, as he looked down at the crowded tables below. He saw Fred, the head barman, moving from table to table, taking orders, passing them to his various waiters, pausing to make a discreet joke or to exchange a word with an habitué, but always efficient, seeing that no guest had to wait for
a drink.
"Mr. Lewis . . ."
Lewis turned, raising his eyebrows. This was his ritual moment when he disliked being disturbed, but seeing the pretty, dark girl at his side, he smiled. Rita Wallace was in charge of the vault. She had worked now for Lewis for five years, and he had found her completely dependable, supervising the work of the vault with a calm, efficient manner that make the exacting work easy for the other girls.
"Why, Rita . . . good evening." Lewis regarded her. "Something wrong?" He asked the question automatically. He never saw Rita unless there was some problem she couldn't solve, and that was seldom.
"I'm a girl short, Mr. Lewis," she said. He regarded her neat, black dress and wondered how much she had paid for it. Lewis had that kind of mind. He was curious about everything. "Lana Evans hasn't come in."
"Oh? Is she ill?"
"I don't know, Mr. Lewis. I called her apartment an hour ago, but there was no answer. I must have another girl. Could I have Maria Wells from the general office?"
"Yes, of course. Tell her I hope she will help us out." Lewis smiled. "I think she will." Then he thought, looking at Rita inquiringly, "Odd about Lana. I can't remember her taking a night off without letting us know. You say she doesn't answer her phone?"
"That's right, Mr. Lewis."
Lewis shrugged.
"Well, try again later." He smiled, nodded and dismissed her. This was a domestic problem he knew she could handle. As she left him, he turned once again to survey the lower terrace, then satisfied that everything was working with its normal clockwork efficiency, he made his way through the big gambling hall.
At this hour only fifty or sixty habitués were at the roulette tables: elderly, rich residents of Paradise City who remained rooted to the tables from midday to midnight.
He caught the eye of one of the croupiers who had been in his service for the past eleven years. The man, fat, sleek, with bulging eyes, gave him a dignified nod as he guided a stack of chips with his rake to an old woman who reached out her little fat fingers to welcome them.
Lewis walked into the restaurant and had a word with Maitre d'hôtel Giovanni whom he had stolen from the Savoy Hotel, London, at a considerable cost. There were a few early tourists, studying the enormous menus that a suave Captain of Waiters had presented to them. In another hour, the restaurant would be a maelstrom of hungry, noisy people.
"All well, Giovanni?" Lewis asked.
"Perfect, sir." The Maitre d'hôtel lifted a supercilious eyebrow. The very suggestion that it couldn't be well in his restaurant was an implied insult.
Lewis studied the menu that Giovanni handed him. He nodded.
"Looks excellent. Tomorrow is the night. Anything special?"
"We have grouse and salmon from Scotland. Baby lamb from Normandy. The plat de jour — for the tourists — will be coq au vin. Monsieur Oliver of Paris is sending us by air his new dish . . . lapin et lamproie."
Lewis looked suitably impressed.
"So we won't starve?"
The tall, thin Maitre d'hôtel flicked away an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate dinner jacket.
"No, sir. We won't starve."
Lewis moved through the restaurant, noticing that each table had a bowl of orchids cunningly lit from below. He thought Giovanni's table decoration excellent, but he wondered about the cost, for Harry Lewis was an extremely practical man.
Out on the terrace, amid the noise of the chatter and the soft music of the band, he paused until he caught the eye of the head barman. Fred, thickset, short, slightly ageing, moved towards his master, a happy grin on his fiery red face.
"Going to be a big night, sir," he said. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Not right now, Fred. Tomorrow is going to be the night."
"I guess. Well, we can take care of it."
Seeing flicking fingers across the terrace, Fred turned and hurried away.
Satisfied that his machine was working smoothly, Lewis returned to his office. He had still a number of letters to deal with before he had a simple meal served on his desk. He was unaware that Jess Chandler, sitting alone at a table away from the band, nursing a whisky and soda, watched him leave the terrace.
Chandler was uneasy. Maisky's plan seemed sound, but he was worried at the enormity of the task. Here, after spending an hour or so on the terrace, watching, seeing all these people, arrogant and so confident in their wealth, the steady movement of the guards, .45 revolvers at their hips, the feeling of solidarity that the Casino exuded, made Chandler realise that this was a millionaire's bastion that was protected alarmingly well, and that anyone planning a robbery was taking on more than a major opertion.
He had no misgivings about his own part in the operation. He was quite happy with the role that Maisky had given him. It was just the right job for him. He was completely confident that he could talk his, way into the vault. What really worried him was that Maisky had picked Jack Perry for the operation. Chandler knew all about Perry. This man wasn't human. In a squeeze, he wouldn't hesitate to kill, and violence to Chandler was something he had always avoided and feared. If Perry started a massacre — and he might well do — then they all in real trouble. He knew Mish was a clever technician. He knew nothing about Wash nor did he care, but Perry scared him.
Suddenly sick of the luxury surrounding him, he paid his check and walked into the gambling rooms. For a moment he paused to look around, noting the four uniformed guards who stood by the box elevators that conveyed the money up and down to the vaults. They all looked young, aggressive and alert. Grimacing, he walked across the ornate lobby where he collected his passport from the Check-in office. There was a big crowd coming in: every woman wore diamonds and had a mink stole — the uniform of the rich. Chandler was aware that some of them looked at him with interest, their bored eyes lighting up. Not in the mood, he ignored them.
As he walked down the flat, broad steps into the garden of the Casino, he saw Jack Perry, wearing a tuxedo, a cigar between his teeth, corning towards him. Chandler turned away from the approaching man and made his way down a narrow path that led to the beach.
Maisky had told them all — not Wash, of course — to take a look at the Casino and to familiarise themselves with the background of the place. Now, Perry had arrived, but Chandler had no wish to be seen with him.
After walking down a long flight of steps, he found himself on the broad promenade that ran around the Casino's private bathing beach.
There were still a number of people in swim suits on the beach, some sitting at tables, drinking, others in the sea. He paused to watch a couple water-skiing, holding a flaming torch in their hands and both very expert. Then he continued on his way, leaving the Casino beach and taking the circular road that would eventually lead him back to his hired car which he had parked near the entrance to the Casino.
Out of the shadows, a girl came towards him. She wore a white dress with a frilly wide skirt, decorated with a rose pattern design. She was very tanned and exciting to look at. Her dark hair framed her face and hung to her shoulders. She carried a guitar in her hand.
Because she was different to the rich bitches of the Casino and also somehow vaguely familiar, Chandler paused and smiled at her.
She stopped and regarded him. A cheap brooch of paste diamonds in her hair caught the overhead light and flashed.
"Hello, Jess . . ."
He stiffened, then quickly relaxed. He had no idea who she was. The trouble with me is, he thought wryly, there are too many women in my life. I know I've met her before, but who is she?
"Hello, baby," he said with his charming smile. "That's a beautiful body your dress is wearing."
She laughed.
"You said exactly that very thing two years ago when we met almost right on this spot . . . but you wouldn't remember."
Then he did remember. Two years ago he had come to Paradise City because a pal of his had the crazy idea of walking into the Casino with ten armed men and clearing the tables. He had quickly
backed out of that plan and his pal, discouraged, had decided that maybe the idea wasn't all that hot.
Chandler had liked the City and had stayed on for a week. It was while he was wandering around the back of the Casino that he had met this girl. He even remembered her name. Lolita (that was one hell of a name now) Seravez. She came from Brazil and made a tricky living working the lesser-class restaurants, singing and playing her guitar. But Chandler had found her love technique stimulating and interesting. He had had no trouble about that. They had looked at each other, and there was a sudden fusion, and ten minutes later, they were holding each other on the hot sand, oblivious to anything except their lust.
"Hi . . . Lolita," he said. "This is the nicest moment of my life. Let's go somewhere where we can be alone."
"My Jess . . . the one-track mind." She regarded him affectionately. "What are you doing here?"
"Don't let's waste time talking about a thing like that." He hooked his arm in hers. "Let's go look at the sea and feel the sand. Baby . . . if you knew how glad I am to see you."
Well Now My Pretty Page 4
