The restaurant was nearly empty. Only four couples still lingered over their meal. No one paid any attention to him as he walked to the far end of the room, out of sight of the uncurtained windows, and sat down at a corner table.
A waiter, a sullen, bored expression on his face, came over and gave Harry the menu card. Harry ordered a fillet of steak, french fried potatoes and a salad. As the waiter moved away, Harry stopped him.
“While the steak's being fixed, I'd like you to do me a favour,” he said, taking out two five-dollar bills. He slid them across the table towards the waiter. “That's for the trouble I may cause you.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter snapped up the bills and stowed them away. He was suddenly anxious to please. He bent over Harry with a deferential air. “What can I do for you?”
“I want five pieces of wood: three measuring twelve by six and two measuring three by six. Think you can get them for me?”
The waiter looked startled,
“Well, I don't know. Maybe our carpenter can fix it if he hasn't gone home. I'll ask him.”
Harry took another five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the waiter.
“Give that to the carpenter. I wouldn't want him to work for nothing. I also want a dozen half-inch nails, a hammer, a drill and a fretsaw. Okay?”
The waiter looked at Harry as if he thought he was crazy.
“You want to buy the tools?”
“No, just to borrow them. I’ll let you have them back tomorrow.”
“You want five pieces of wood, three measuring twelve inches by six, and two three by six, a hammer, a drill, twelve half-inch nails and a fretsaw. Is that right?” the waiter said.
“That's right, and I'd like about a foot of thick copper wire.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the waiter said and went away to the kitchens.
Harry lit a cigarette and stared across the room at a dark, sexy-looking girl who was talking to a thin man with Latin eyes and high cheekbones. Harry didn't see the girl, but his steady stare in her direction so disconcerted her that she shifted her chair around so her back was turned to him.
After a twenty-minute wait, the waiter came back with Harry's steak. He said he had talked to the carpenter who would have the pieces of wood ready for Harry by the time he had finished his dinner.
“I'm in cabin 376,” Harry said. “Would you bring the wood and the tools over to me, and a bottle of Scotch? I want you to keep the wood and the tools out of sight under a napkin. Will you do that?”
The waiter looked wonderingly at him, nodded and said he would come over after Harry had finished his dinner.
Harry didn't hurry over his meal. He had a lot to think about.
First thing in the morning, as soon as the bank opened, he would have to draw out all his capital. He mustn't let Borg think for a moment that he was about to pull a fast one on him. He would have to persuade Joan to lend him a further ten thousand, and he'd have to draw that from her bank. He wondered uneasily if Joan would lend him the money. He was sure Borg would keep track of him, and it was essential not to rouse his suspicions. If he were going to outwit Borg he would have to lull him into a feeling of security, to blunt his razor edge of alertness. If he could do that, he stood a chance of beating him.
After he had finished his meal, he returned to the cabin and sat down to wait. Ten minutes later the waiter came over from the restaurant. He had followed out Harry's instructions to the letter.
He carried a tray, covered with a white napkin undo: which were the five pieces of wood, a hammer, a fretsaw, a drill, some nails and a length of copper wire. In his other hand he carried a bottle of Scotch.
Harry thanked him and got rid of him. Then he locked the door, and, taking the strips of wood over to the table, he assembled them to make an open-top box. From his hip pocket, he took out the .45 automatic and laid it in the box. With a pencil, he made a mark on the wood at one end and another mark in the middle of the bottom of the box. He removed the gun, and with the drill and the fretsaw, made two small openings at the places he had marked. He put the gun back in the box and checked his calculations. The barrel of the gun just poked through the end opening.
The trigger could be reached through the opening in the bottom.
Satisfied that his calculations were accurate, he fixed the gun to the bottom of the box with the length of wire. Then he held the box in the palm of his hand, his thumb and little finger gripping each side, it was simple to insert his forefinger through the opening in the bottom of the box and to curl his finger around the trigger. He found he hadn't made the opening quite wide enough to allow him to pull the trigger. He unfastened the gun, took it out of the box and widened the hole. Then he replaced the gun, fastened it with the wire and tried again. This time he had no difficulty in pulling the trigger. He again took the gun out of the box and sitting on the bed, he carefully oiled and cleaned toe gun. Then he broke open a box of cartridges, and, using a penknife, he cut a ridge in the heads of four of the bullets, slightly spreading the soft lead to make a rough kind of dum-dum. He loaded the gun with these bullets, jacked one into the breech, and once more fastened the gun into the box Satisfied with his work, he locked the box away in a drawer in his chest, cleared up the mess he had made on the table, wrapped the tools in the napkin and left the bundle on the dressing table.
He undressed and got into bed, poured himself another whisky, drank it, then turned out the light Lying in the darkness, he went over his plan in his mind He knew his life and future depended on its success, and the responsibility made him feel cold and frightened. He wished he had Glorie at his side to give him confidence and to soothe his tears.
It was only at this moment that he realized how much he was going to miss Glorie. He dared not confide in Joan. He knew that from now on, even if he did manage to beat Borg and remain out of trouble with the police, he would have no one to share his tears, no one he could lean on, no one to think for him in an emergency as Glorie had done.
When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed that Glorie was in the room, sitting at the dressing table, brushing her hair. He could see her face reflected in the mirror, she looked gay and happy as she had done on that morning before he had told her he was going after the diamonds. But when he spoke to her, she didn't turn nor seem to hear him, and when he tried to get out of bed to go to her, he found he couldn't move-as if some force were holding him down.
He woke to hear himself calling her name, cold sweat running down his face and his heart hammering with fear.
chapter eight
I
Leaving the Buick in a parking lot on Bay Shore Drive, Harry walked along the promenade to the main entrance of the Excelsior hotel where he was to meet Joan at midday.
He had already been to his bank and had arranged for thirty thousand dollars in bearer bonds to be ready for him to collect during the afternoon. He had drawn ten thousand dollars in cash, and he now carried this sum in a leather brief case.
While he had been arranging about the bonds with the bank teller, he had seen Borg come into the bank.
Borg had given him a sly, sneering smile. Pausing only long enough to watch at a distance the clerk complete a withdrawal form and give it to Harry to sign, he had left the bank, and Harry had seen no sign of him since.
But Harry was sure he wasn't far from him, and as he paced up and down outside the hotel, he had a feeling that somewhere, masked by the heavy traffic and the crowds that swarmed along the promenade and sidewalk, Borg continued to keep watch on him.
He suddenly caught sight of the cream Cadillac convertible as it came slowly along in the tide of the traffic. He stood on the kerb, waiting. As Joan pulled up, he opened the car door and got in.
He looked anxiously at her. She was pale, and there were smudges under her eyes. He could see she was still as tense and as worried as she had been when she had left him the previous night.
“I'm not late?” she asked as she steered the car into the stream o
f traffic again.
“It's just on twelve. Let's get away from this crush where we can talk,” he said. “Turn left here. We can go out to the golf course. We can lunch there if you like.”
“Yes.”
They drove in silence up South West 27th Avenue. Harry kept his eyes on the driving mirror on the right wing of the car.
He spotted Borg's car turn into the avenue after they had reached the intersection at West Flagler Street.
“Did you speak to your father?” he asked abruptly.
“No.” Joan didn't look at him. “He's busy today.”
Harry moved uneasily. He glanced at her, wondering what was going on in her mind.
“You look as if you didn't get much sleep last night,” he said. “Are you still worrying yourself about nothing, Joan?”
“I wish it were nothing. Did you manage to sleep then?” she returned, slowing at the entrance to the golf course. She swung the car on to the private road, then accelerated, sending the car forward at a fast speed. Neither of them spoke until she had parked the car before the clubhouse, then she said, “We can go on to the terrace.”
As Harry got out of the car, he looked back along the straight drive to the main road. There was no sign of Borg.
He followed her along the begonia-lined path, around the clubhouse and on to the broad terrace with its tables and gay sun umbrellas. There were not more than six or seven people on the terrace, and it was easy enough to find a secluded table. They sat down, and when the waiter came over, Harry ordered a double whisky after Joan had said she didn't want anything.
They waited until the drink was brought, then Harry said, “When do you think you'll be able to talk to your father, Joan? I don't want to waste any more time if I can help it.”
She looked down at her hands, frowning.
“I'm not going to talk to him now, Harry.”
Harry felt as if someone had punched him under the heart.
“You mean you don't want to go ahead with the idea?”
“Yes, that's what I mean. I'm sorry, but I can't go ahead with it now.”
“But, Joan, I have been relying on you,” he said, his voice husky. “We had it all worked out. I can't believe you're going to let me down. Why have you changed your mind?”
“My father trusts my judgment,” she said, looking across at the distant fairway where four men were coming down the hill towards the eighteenth green. “He never questions anything I do or want to do. He would back me if I asked him to put up capital for a business. He'd take my word that it was a sound investment. That puts me in a difficult position. I couldn't tell him the idea is a sound one.”
Harry felt the blood rise into his face.
“I don't understand,” he said sharply. “You know this is a sound idea, Joan. Why can't you tell him so?”
“The idea is sound enough,” she said quietly, and suddenly she looked straight at him, “but I am not sure now it would be sound if you handled it.”
Harry felt himself turn white.
“Are you telling me that you don't love me?”
She shook her head.
“I'm not saying that: love has nothing to do with it, Harry. I've been told often enough by my father that business and sentiment don't mix. He's right: they don't.”
Harry ran his fingers through his hair. Without Graynor's backing, he would get nowhere, he told himself. He would have to be content to buy one aircraft which would give him plenty of headaches and only a bare living.
“But why have you changed your mind? What have you got against me?” he asked.
“It has suddenly dawned on me that I don't know anything about you,” she returned. “I know I have behaved very badly, and I should never have let you make love to me. You swept me off my feet. I thought you were a wonderful person, but now I'm not sure that you are. Yesterday, I discovered two things about you: you are afraid of the police and you are a liar. I couldn't go into a partnership with a man I can't trust.”
With a hand that shook, Harry picked up his drink and gulped down half the whisky.
“Well, that's pretty good,” he said, his voice off-key. “So I'm a liar and you can't trust me. I didn't expect this from you.”
“What have you done to Glorie Dane?” she asked quietly, her eyes looking into his.
Harry felt sweat break out on his face.
“Done to her? What do you mean?”
“What I say. What have you done to her?”
“I've done nothing to her,” Harry said, sitting forward, his fists clenched. “I told you: I put her on a train for Mexico City. She's gone to her brother's place.”
“Will you give me her brother's address so I can find out if she has arrived there?”
“If I had it, I'd give it to you,” Harry said, talking out of his handkerchief and wiping his face. “But I haven't got it. I don't know where her brother lives, and I don't give a damn either.”
“You saw her on the train?”
“Yes. Now look, Joan . . .”
“What time did the train leave?”
Harry immediately saw the trap. This was something she could check. He cursed himself for giving her such an obvious opening.
He should have checked the trains when he had first told her Glorie had left for Mexico City.
“Some time in the morning,” he said, reaching for his glass again to cover his confusion. “For the love of mike, Joan . . .”
“Are you quite sure it was in the morning?” she asked quietly.
He put down his glass with the drink untouched and faced her.
He knew he couldn't hedge anymore. She had cornered him, and whatever he said, she could prove he was lying. He realized he must shift ground and tell her half the truth in the hope he could convince her.
“All right: she didn't go to Mexico City. Now are you satisfied?” he said angrily.
She continued to stare at him, her eyes cold and hurt.
“So you admit lying to me?”
“Yes, I lied,” Harry said, “and I'm sorry. I'll tell you what happened if you must know. Glorie did turn sour as I told you she had. She wanted thirty thousand dollars to let me go. She said she would go to your father and tell him she was my mistress if I didn't give her the money. If I did give it to her I would have no capital to go into partnership with you. I was in a spot. I decided I'd have to give you up and go with her. She wanted to go to New Orleans. She thought she and I could run this air-taxi business there better than here. We got as far as Collier City, then I suddenly couldn't take it. I felt if I gave in to her, I wasn't only ruining my life and yours, but hers as well. I told her so. I told her if she continued to blackmail me, I'd blackmail her. I said I'd give her away to the police: I should have told her that before, but I didn't want to do it. That settled it. She climbed down. I made her take two thousand and promise to leave me alone. I put her on a bus to New Orleans and I came back here. That's what happened and that's the truth.”
Joan continued to stare at him.
“Why didn't you tell me this before instead of making out she had gone to Mexico City?” she asked in a quiet, cold voice.
“I didn't want to worry you, I thought if I told you she was going to her brother instead of going off into the blue to New Orleans you'd be more easy in your mind about her,” Harry said, trying not to show how desperately he was lying.
“So she is in New Orleans now?”
“I guess so. I don't know. I put her on a bus to New Orleans. What's happened to her now I don't know and I don't care.” He finished his drink and set down the glass. “Can't we get her out of our lives, Joan? I'm through with her, and she is through with me. I love you. I want to marry you, and I want to go ahead with my plans. Can't we do that?”
“No, we can't,” she said. “You see, Harry, I just don't know if I can believe you or not. I'm certainly not going into a business partnership with you. I couldn't risk my father's money in anything you were handling. I can't marry you either until I kn
ow for certain you are speaking the truth.”
“Of course I'm speaking the truth,” Harry said angrily. “I give you my word . . .”
“Then why are you looking the way you're looking? What are you frightened about? You have something on your conscience,” she said. “Anyone can see that. It's as if you have done something dreadful.” She paused, her hands turning into fists. “You know what I’m beginning to suspect, don't you?”
He stared at her, his face glistening with sweat.
“It's not true, Joan. I swear it isn't.”
“Then you know what I mean?”
“No, I don't, but I've done nothing wrong. You've got to believe me.”
“I’m frightened for you, Harry.”
“You don't have to be. I tell you I've done nothing wrong. You've got to believe me, Joan!”
“All right, I will believe you on one condition,” she said. “I can't accept your word now. You have told me too many lies for me to do that, but I’m willing to be convinced. If you will go with me to New Orleans so I can talk to Glorie myself and hear her version of this business, I’ll be convinced, but not before. Will you come to New Orleans with me?”
He hesitated, and the hesitation was fatal. She had been watching him closely. She saw his eyes shift away from hers, his face slacken while his brain raced to find a way out.
She got to her feet.
“All right, Harry,” she said unsteadily. “Let's leave it at that. I don't think we should meet again, anyway not until you have brought Glorie back to Miami. If you can do that, then we might have another talk.”
He knew this was the end between them. He could tell that by her expression, and he cursed Glorie and cursed himself for spoiling the only love in his lie. Defeated, he got slowly to his feet and followed her across the terrace, around the clubhouse to the car park.
She stopped by the car and faced him.
“Please get a taxi back,” she said. He could see her lips were trembling and there were tears in her eyes. “I would rather you didn't come with me.”
1955 - You've Got It Coming Page 22
