James Chase - Well Now, My Pretty…

“They? I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“I know you,” Wand said. “You couldn’t afford to live in this place. You better open up or you’ll be in real trouble. They are up there, aren’t they?”

Lolita’s lips were now pale under her lipstick, but she didn’t give up.

“They? I told you… I’m alone here. What is all this about?”

Wand walked to the door.

“Get Gutsey,” he said to Colon.

Colon went to the front door and waved to O’Connor who was standing by the gate, waiting impatiently. Uneasily, the fat sergeant came up the path.

“What the hell is it now?”

“Take her,” Wand said. “They’re up in the loft.”

O’Connor gaped at him, then he caught hold of Lolita’s arm. He jerked her into the passage as Mish, listening to all this, gently raised the trap door, aimed his gun and squeezed the trigger.

The gun exploded with a bang that rattled the windows. A red stain appeared on O’Connor’s tunic. He went down on his knees, like a stricken ox, his hands clasping his enormous belly.

Lolita screamed and threw herself back into the sitting-room as Colon, jerking up his rifle, ripped in shot after shot through the ceiling.

Mish, hit in the face and through the body, somehow lifted his gun and again squeezed the trigger. Shot through the shoulder, Collon dropped his rifle, falling face down on the floor. Mish tried to regain his balance, then toppled through the trap door, his dying fingers squeezing the trigger of his gun which exploded bullets through the narrow passage. He thudded down on Collon as Wand shot him again through the head.

Wand hurriedly backed into the sitting-room, crouching down on one knee. There were two more of them up there, he thought, not knowing that Jack Perry was already dead.

Carefully sighting his rifle at the already holed ceiling, he fired five quick shots into the ceiling.

“Okay, you two,” he bawled. “Come on down with your hands in the air!”

Lolita, standing against the wall, looked wildly around the room. Her eyes alighted on a heavy glass ashtray. Without hesitating, she reached for it, took three silent steps up to Wand who was staring through the doorway at the open trap and crashed the ashtray down on his head.

He dropped the rifle, gave a groan and fell forward.

Her heart hammering, she jumped over his body and ran to the trap door.

“Jess! Quick! Come down!” she screamed. “We can get away! Come down quick!”

There was a pause, then a scuffling noise and Chandler appeared in the open trap. His face was white and his eyes half closed.

“Beat it, baby,” he said hoarsely. “There’s nothing more you can do for me now… and thanks for everything.”

Blood ran out of his mouth and dripped on to the worn mat in the hall.

Lolita screamed.

“Jess!”

“Beat it,” Chandler gasped, then his eyes rolled back and he sagged forward, his arms hanging close to her face.

She caught hold of his hand, then shuddered and released it. She ran into the bedroom, snatched up her suitcase, threw it on the bed and crammed her things into it. Tears ran down her face and every now and then she caught her breath in a rasping sob.

Carrying the suitcase, she went out into the hall, looked again at Chandler, then, jumping over O’Connor’s great bulk, she ran out into the darkness of the garage. She threw her suitcase into the back of the Mini, got in and started the engine.

She drove fast towards the Miami highway.

FOR THE past three hours the Homicide Squad, under Hess, and the fingerprint experts, under Jeff White, had swarmed over Maisky’s bungalow.

Chief of Police Terrell, back at headquarters, was waiting impatiently for their reports.

When Sam Wand had recovered consciousness, he had staggered to the police car and triggered off the alarm. Patrolmen at the Miami-Paradise road block had arrested Lolita and had taken her to headquarters. She was now in a cell, waiting to be questioned.

Around midnight, Hess walked into Terrell’s office, his fat face shiny with sweat, his eyes dark ringed.

“Well, Fred? What’s the news?” Terrell asked as he poured coffee into two paper cups and gave Hess one. The fat detective slumped down on a chair.

“Looks like there’s only one left,” he said, paused to gulp some coffee, then went on, “No. S. But there’s no sign of the money. O’Connor’s dead. Collon has a smashed shoulder, but he’ll survive. Here’s as far as we’ve got: the bungalow was rented by Franklin Ludovick on May 2nd last year. He’s been living there up to now. He must be our No. 5. The bungalow hasn’t been properly cleaned for some time and Jeff has a whale of a lot of prints. He has wired them to Washington. We expect to hear any time now. I’ve talked to the Agent who rented the bungalow. His description of Ludovick matches the description given us by the Lab boys: sixty-five, small, frail, sandy hair, beaky nose and grey eyes. He owns an old Buick, but the Agent can’t remember its colour nor its licence number. He has pulled out. Nothing belonging to him remains in the bungalow. Looks now as if he did rat on the others. Where he is is problematic. We do know he hasn’t passed the road blocks.”

“All right, Fred. It’s a good start,” Terrell said. “Nothing yet on the truck?”

“Not so far… oh, yes, we’ve found the T.R.4. It was hidden in the sand dunes, about a mile from the bungalow.”

“No sign yet of Perry?”

“It’s my bet he’s dead. The car is soaked in blood. No man could bleed like that and survive. They’ve probably buried him some place.”

“Well, we are making progress.” Terrell finished his coffee. “Now, we have to find No. 5.”

Jacoby came in.

“Excuse me, Chief, a signal from Washington just come in.”

Terrell read the signal, then looked at Hess.

“Here’s our man: Serge Maisky. He spent ten years at Roxburgh jail as a dispenser. He retired April last. They’re sending a photo.” He laid the signal on the desk. “He’s here somewhere, so we take the City to pieces. . Where he is, the money will be. Get it organised, Fred. Put on every available man. He shouldn’t be all that difficult to turn up.”

Hess got wearily to his feet.

“Could be famous last words, Chief. But I’ll get it organised,” and he left the office.

Terrell reached for the telephone. He told the police matron to have Lolita brought to his office, but he didn’t get anywhere with her. She sat, stunned, white faced and silent, not answering his questions, but rocking herself to and fro in her misery. Jess Chandler had been the only man she had ever loved. His death had left her no hope in life. Finally, shrugging, Terrell sent her back to her cell.

Tom Whiteside opened his eyes and blinked up at the sky that showed blue through the canopy of trees. He looked at his wristwatch. The time was twenty after seven. He looked over at Sheila. She was asleep. For a girl who claimed she could never sleep, he thought sourly, she didn’t do so badly.

He crawled out of his sleeping bag and shaved with his cordless razor, then, feeling a little more alive, he went down to the car. He got from the boot the hated gas cooker, and after a fierce struggle, got one of the burners to light. He brewed up coffee while he smoked a cigarette.

Then, carrying two steaming cups of coffee back into the glade, he stirred Sheila with his foot.

“Come on… come on… wake up,” he said irritably. “Here’s some coffee.”

She moved, moaned, then opened her eyes. She looked sleepily up at him.

“Oh… you…”

“Yes… me.” He dumped the cup of coffee by her side and went over to sit on his sleeping bag.