Well Now My Pretty

by James Hadley Chase

  "Let me handle him," Lewis said quietly. He walked over to Regan who was sitting in his glass box, his eyes blank, but still talking. "Sid!" The firm voice made Regan lift his head. "You did a fine job," Lewis went on, putting his hand on the old man's arm. "Thanks . . . now, you can help the police find these men. They want a description of them. I know your photographic memory, Sid . . . no one like you to remember details . . . just think for a moment. There were three of them . . . is that right?"

  The blankness went out of Regan's eyes. He nodded.

  "You're right, Mr. Lewis. I remember them," and then he began to talk sense, so fast, Beigler, notebook in hand, had difficulty in keeping up with him. "There was this short, fat guy with snow-white hair. . . he had a tattoo mark on his left hand . . . no, I'm wrong. . . it was his right hand . . . a girl with her legs apart. I've seen that before . . . you close your fist and her legs close. He was grinning all the time . . . blue eyes . . . then there was . . ."

  "Keep talking, Sid, I'll be right back," Lewis said, patted the old man's shoulder, then, jerking his head at Terrell, he led the way out into the hot, still night.

  * * *

  Once clear of the Casino, Maisky slowed the speed of the truck, but he still maintained a steady forty miles an hour. He knew all the side roads that led eventually to the sea: a honeycomb of narrow lanes which he had studied now for months. He drove a hundred yards or so along the broad highway that led to Miami, then turned off down a narrow road. Once away from the highway, he flicked up the lever of his dashboard and the two I.B.M. signs dropped off the truck, banging down on the road. Slightly accelerating, he continued on down the road for the best part of a mile, then he turned left, and driving more slowly, he went down a narrow road, lined either side by luxury villas; another left turn brought him to the sea.

  His plan was working out exactly as he had foreseen. He had been certain that trouble would start at the Casino. He had known O'Brien would be the explosive spark to start the trouble for he had watched the security guard night after night and had known to the minute when he would visit the vault. This was the only reason why he had included Jack Perry among the members of the gang. He wanted Perry to start trouble. It would then give him the chance of driving away and leaving the rest of them on their own. It had been like looking in a crystal ball . . . the events predicted . . . the events taking place.

  His heart beat a little faster when he thought what might have happened if his planning had been wrong. But it hadn't been wrong, and now he was on the second leg of his operation to own two million dollars without having to share a dollar of it.

  He drove the truck down on to the firm sand of the lonely beach where he had left his Buick. Speed was essential, he kept reminding himself, aware that his breathing was too fast and that he was sweating. There wasn't a second to waste.

  Chandler knew of this hiding place. He had gone with Maisky that morning so that he could drive Maisky back after Maisky had left the Buick. There was a remote chance that Chandler would get away, find transport and come down to the hiding place. He might just possibly arrive at any moment.

  Maisky manoeuvred the truck so that its rear bumper was close to the Buick's rear bumper. He slid out of the truck, ran around to the back of the truck and swung open the double doors. The light from the moon was sufficient for him to see the carton containing the money he had plotted to own for so many, long careful months. He leaned into the truck, caught hold of the carton and attempted to pull it towards him.

  The carton remained motionless as if bolted to the floor. Its unexpected weight sent a surge of alarm through Maisky. He hadn't anticipated the carton could possibly be so heavy. Again he heaved his puny strength against the dead weight. The carton shifted a few inches and then again became immovable.

  Maisky paused. Sweat was streaming down his thin face and he was shaking. The night was stiflingly hot. In the far distance, he could see people still enjoying themselves on the beach, some in the sea, others playing ball in the moonlight. There was a sudden, alarming stab of pain in his chest, and, with a feeling of dread, he realised the carton was too heavy for him to manhandle into the boot of the Buick.

  Maisky was a man who never panicked, but at this moment, he had to make a stem effort to control himself as he was forced to accept the bitter truth that his age and his health weren't up to coping with this carton of money. To increase the pressure of panic, here was this possibility that Chandler or worse — Perry — might suddenly arrive.

  He climbed into the truck and took the lid off the carton. No wonder it was so heavy! For a long moment, he squatted on his thin haunches, staring at the packets and packets of $500 bills. Then, working feverishly, he began to toss the packets into the open boot of the Buick. As he worked, feeling choked and hot in the stifling truck, he became more and more aware of the laughter and shouts of the people not more than eight hundred yards from him, enjoying themselves in the moonlight.

  Every now and then, he paused to look along the deserted beach to his left . . . it was from this direction that either Chandler or Perry or both would come.

  Finally, with an effort that exhausted him, he emptied half the carton, then scrambling out of the truck, he dragged the carton, that was still almost too heavy for him to handle, from the truck into the boot of the Buick. He then had to replace all the packets of money back into the carton before he could shut the door. One packet of money dropped in the sand. The paper band broke and a sudden, unexpected breeze sent some of the $500 bills careering towards the sea.

  Such was Maisky's greed that he began to chase the bills, but, realising the danger of wasting more time, he slammed shut the boot, slid under the steering wheel and switched on the ignition. He pressed down on the accelerator. The engine gave a cough, but failed to start.

  Maisky sat rigid, his hands gripping the wheel, sweat blinding him. Cautiously, he again pressed down on the accelerator. The engine kicked, whined and then was silent.

  For several seconds, Maisky cursed vilely. He had been out of his mind to have tried to save money buying a secondhand car! He remembered another occasion of no importance when he had tried to start the car and had had trouble . . . so much trouble that he had had to telephone a breakdown garage to come out and start the car. But now there was no telephone, no breakdown garage and he was in trouble with this sonofabitch car. Once again he tried, and once again the engine failed to start.

  Hp turned off the ignition, opened the glove compartment and took out a .25 automatic. He slid the gun into his jacket pocket, then he opened the engine cover. He peered into the dark interior. His heart was slamming against his ribs alarmingly and his breathing was coming in short, jerky bursts.

  Cursing, he went to one of the sidepockets of the car, took out a flashlight and returned to the engine. He peered at the mass of wiring which meant nothing to him. He jerked at one or two of the cables in the hope that one of them had come loose, but he only succeeded in burning his hand on the hot cylinder head and getting black grease on his shirt cuff.

  "You got trouble?"

  The sound of a man's voice just behind him sent such a stab of alarm through Maisky's frail body that he thought he was about to have a heart attack. He leaned against the wing of the car, cold, shocked with fear, as the voice went on, "Could be oiled up, you know. It's the heat."

  Very slowly, Maisky turned.

  A young man . . . not more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing only a bathing slip, his tall body so deeply suntanned, he looked almost black in the moonlight, was standing close to him.

  "I guess I startled you," the young man went on. "Sorry. I saw you trying to start her. . . I'm pretty good with cars."

  Maisky was aware that the moonlight was falling directly on him. This young man with his young eyes and his young memory would be able to give the police a dangerous description of him. This was something Maisky had planned all along must never happen.

  "You . . . are . . . very . . . kind," he said slowl
y, trying to control his breathing, trying desperately not to alert this young man that he was terrified. "Perhaps you could see what is wrong." He offered the flashlight.

  He felt the warm, firm flesh as their hands met. The young man took the flashlight.

  Maisky stepped back. He glanced again up the beach, aware of the passing minutes, aware that Chandler, Perry or even the police might arrive at any moment. He was also aware of three $500 bills lying in the sand close to the young man's feet. His hand crept to his jacket pocket. He drew the .25 gun and snicked back the safety catch. He held the gun down by his side.

  "Your points are dirty," the young man said. "Have you a rag?"

  With his left hand, Maisky gave him his handkerchief.

  "Use that . . . it doesn't matter." He was surprised to hear how shaky his voice sounded.

  The young man worked for several minutes, then stepped back.

  "Try her now."

  "Perhaps you would," Maisky said, moving away from the car.

  The young man slid under the steering wheel, turned on the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator.

  The engine fired immediately and Maisky drew in a sharp breath. For a long moment, he hesitated, then he remembered

  Lana Evans. He had killed her. One more death now didn't matter.

  "It's okay," the young man said as he got out of the car. He suddenly stared down at his feet, seeing the three $500 bills in the sand. "Hey! Are these yours?"

  As he bent to pick up the bills, Maisky took a quick step back, and then aiming his gun at the young man's bent head, he squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

  Mish Collins was shutting the lid of his tool box when he heard the distant sound of a gunshot. He straightened, a red light flashing in his mind.

  That meant trouble! In a few minutes, the place would be swarming with police and security guards. He snapped off the light in the control room, then, leaving the tool box, he began to walk quickly up the narrow alley. Then he heard another shot and he flinched, his hand groping for the butt of his .38 automatic, stuffed into his hip pocket.

  He paused at the head of the alley. Across the way, he could see his parked car. The doorman of the Casino was looking tensely away to his right. A scattering of people, enjoying the hot, night air, stood motionless, also looking in the same direction. Then Mish saw two Security guards, guns in hand, come running down the steps of the Casino and go off to the right.

  Mish gave up the idea of using his car. He turned left and, not walking too fast, he made his way under the arc lights that floodlit the face of the Casino. During the seconds he had to walk under the blazing lights, he expected to hear shouts or the bang of a gun.

  What the hell happened? he wondered, wiping the sweat off his face. Then suddenly he was out of the light and into the shadows.

  A familiar voice said, "Keep moving. I'm with you."

  Chandler had appeared and fell into step beside him.

  "What happened?" Mish asked, not pausing.

  "Shut up!" Chandler snapped. His face was white and his eyes glittering. There was an edge of panic in his voice that set Mish's nerves tingling. "Let's get down to the beach! For God's sake, don't run!"

  "Who said I was going to run! Goddam it! What happened?"

  "Shut up!" Chandler repeated, slightly hurrying his stride.

  In a few moments, as the wail of a police siren cut the air, the two men reached the promenade. They plunged down on to the beach.

  Not far from them was a party of young people, grouped around a barbecue, its charcoal fire making a splash of red in the moonlight, the smell of grilling steaks savoury in the hot, still air. They were too busy laughing and talking to notice the two men as they slid into the shadows of the languidly swaying palm trees and sank on to the sand.

  "What the hell happened?" Mish demanded, ripping off the blouse of his uniform. He felt stifled.

  "Trouble . . . it's a murder rap now," Chandler said, trying to steady his voice. "That punk Perry shot a guard!"

  Mish had spent too many years of his life mixing with killers to be impressed by violence.

  "How about the money?"

  Chandler took a long, deep gulping breath. His body was now jerking and shuddering as he remembered how Perry had slaughtered the tough Irish guard.

  "We got it . . . Maisky ran out on us . . . he took the money with him."

  Mish regarded him, his small eyes narrowing.

  "What's the matter with you? What are you so worked up about?"

  Chandler swung around and grabbed hold of Mish's shirt front.

  "Didn't you hear what I said? That bastard Perry killed . . ."

  Mish's heavy, fat hand slapped across Chandler's face, sending him flat on his back. Chandler lay motionless, staring up at the brilliant stars that pinpointed the dark sky. He lay there for some moments, then with a shuddering breath, he sat up.

  "Okay, Jess," Mish said quietly. "Relax. So Maisky has the money. Fine . . . I told you he was a bright boy. You don't have to worry about him. Never mind Perry . . . that's just too bad. What happened to Wash?"

  Chandler fingered his aching face.

  "I don't know."

  Mish stared at him, stiffening.

  "What do you mean . . . you don't know?"

  "There was a guy there . . . an old man . . . he let off a gun. He nearly nailed me. We ran for it. I didn't worry about Wash or Perry . . . they are big enough to look after themselves. I don't know what happened to either of them."

  Mish didn't like this, but he guessed he would have done the same thing.

  "How much money do you reckon we've got?" Mish asked.

  "We haven't got it! Maisky's got it!" Chandler exploded. "The little rat took off as soon as there was trouble!"

  Mish stared at him.

  "What are you talking about? What the hell did you expect him to do . . . stick around so they could grab the money back?"

  Chandler hadn't thought of this possible explanation. He asked more hopefully, "You think that's what happened? I got the idea he was ratting on us."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake! Maisky wouldn't do that. I know him. You think for a minute . . . trouble started: he knew you guys could look after yourselves so he took care of the money . . . he beat it. I would have done the same. I'll bet he's right now at the bungalow, waiting for us to join him . . . that's what we arranged, isn't it?"

  Chandler began to relax.

  "Yeah." He shook his head, trying to convince himself. "When he took off, I really thought . . ." He paused, then shrugged. "We had better get back to the bungalow. It's a hell of a walk."

  "How much do you reckon you got?"

  "I don't know. We crammed that carton full of money. Exactly how much I have no idea. We had to work fast." Chandler pulled from his hip pockets two thick rolls of bills. "There's quite a lot here . . . all in five-dollar bills."

  Mish eyed the money and drew in a deep breath.

  "Looks nice, doesn't it?"

  Chandler hesitated, then gave him one roll and put the other back in his hip pocket.

  "We'd better get moving." He looked uneasily across the beach. There were still too many people in the sea and on the beach for comfort. "These damn uniforms . . ."

  "Take 'em off," Mish said and stripped off his khaki shirt. "Turn the pants into shorts and no one will take a second look at us." He found a penknife in his pocket and, taking off his slacks, and using Mish's penknife, he also completed the same operation.

  When they had buried the shirts and the cut-off trousers' legs in the sand, they got to their feet.

  "Let's go," Mish said.

  They moved out of the shadows and headed towards the sea. They had to pass close to the group around the barbecue. One of the girls, in a bikini and slightly drunk, waved to them. Mish waved back, but kept moving.

  The two men, walking easily, not hurrying, headed towards Maisky's bungalow.

  * * *

  Jack Perry shed his I.B.M. blouse and dr
opped it behind a flowering shrub. The moment the truck had taken off, he had slid away with the swift, silent movements of a jungle cat, not up the path, but through the hedge, across the soft earth, moving away from the Casino. As he slid through the trees and bushes, he unscrewed the silencer on his gun and dropped it into his hip pocket. He knew that within minutes the police would seal off all exits from the Casino. He knew also the old man would sooner or later give the police a description of him. He should have killed him, he thought. He now had to make his own way back to Maisky's bungalow. This was a two-mile walk, and it would be dangerous.

  By now he had reached the promenade. He was conscious of looking out of place in his khaki shirt and slacks as a group of young people came towards him, wearing only bikinis and swimming trunks. He kept on, seeing that they looked at him. When he was clear of them, he took off his shirt and tossed it behind a tree. His gun bothered him. It wasn't easy to conceal. Holding it in his hand, down by his side, he kept walking. After some five minutes, he left the promenade and struck off across the sandy beach. Here, it was quiet and less frequented. He paused suddenly as he saw some hundred yards ahead of him a small sports car, parked under a palm tree. By it stood a girl, slipping a sweat shirt over her bikini.