James Chase - The World in My Pocket

They had a brief but impressive view of the driver and the guard as the truck swept past.

Gypo sat up, his eyes taking in as much of the truck as his brain could memorize.

They watched the truck turn the next bend and disappear in a cloud of dust, and then both men relaxed, looking at each other uneasily.

‘It looks tough,’ Gypo said and started to scratch under his armpit. ‘Did you see those two? Santa Maria! They look pretty tough too!’

Kitson had had a good view of both the driver and the guard as the truck had gone past. He knew these two men fairly intimately. He had warned Morgan about them, but now, seeing them sitting behind the windshield of the truck, he realized how formidable they were, and he had a cold clutch of fear when he thought that in a few days, he would be having a showdown with them.

‘What are you worrying about?’ he said as casually as he could. ‘You don’t have to tackle them. Okay, so they’re tough. What do you think we are — powder puffs, like she said?’

Gypo shook his head, his face uneasy.

‘Those two look mean to me. I’m glad I don’t have to tackle them.’

Kitson took out his notebook and wrote down the time the truck had passed through the bottleneck.

‘Who asked you to tackle them anyway?’ he said curtly. ‘Morgan and Bleck will take care of them.’

‘And the girl,’ Gypo said. ‘She has the toughest end of it. A girl like that. I keep thinking what she said about if he grabbed her gun she would shoot him. Do you think she meant it?’

Kitson had been thinking about that too and he had wondered about it. He could see the sea-green eyes, her tense expression and he grimaced.

‘I don’t know.’ He got up on to his knees and looked up and down the road. ‘Let’s get going. How do you feel about busting open that truck?’

‘Frank says I can have three to four weeks to work on it,’

Gypo said. ‘That’s a cinch. Give me the right tools and that amount of time and there’s nothing ever made that I couldn’t bust into. No matter how tough the job is, so long as you’ve got the time, you can fix it. Frank says three to four weeks. Okay, in that time, I’ll fix it.’

‘That’s what Frank says,’ Kitson said looking at Gypo, ‘but suppose something goes wrong; suppose the pressure’s on, how fast could you bust that truck, Gypo?’

Gypo’s fat face showed sudden uneasiness.

‘Why talk like that? Frank says three or four weeks. Okay, up to now Frank has been right, hasn’t he? That’s a tough truck. Even a guy like you with no experience of metal or locks can see that. It wants working at: slow, steady, with plenty of time. You couldn’t bust that one open fast.’

‘I’ll get the car,’ Kitson said. ‘You wait here.’

Gypo watched him go, his fat face worried.

Then he thought of the girl with her cold assured sea-green eyes, her arrogant stare as she had faced Kitson, and he felt more confident.

Why make too much fuss about this job? he thought, feeling the hot sun beating down on him. Frank had said it was all right and up to now, everything Frank had said was all right, had been all right. This girl had all the confidence in the world about the job. He wouldn’t have the dangerous end of the job to handle. His job was to bust open the truck, and Frank had promised him he would have from three to four weeks to work at it. Anyone who worked in metal and knew locks could get into anything, no matter how tough, in that time.

The Welling Armoured truck drove on towards the Rocket Research station. Neither the driver nor the guard was aware that they had been timed and scrutinized.

They continued on their way, leaving a cloud of white dust behind them.

Morgan had called a meeting for eight o’clock and Bleck was a little early. He arrived at Lu Strieger’s Poolroom at seven forty-five for no other reason except his watch was fast. He moved through the crowded, smoke-hazed bar to where Strieger, a red-faced, enormously fat man was watching a game of pool.

‘Anyone gone up yet, Lu?’ Bleck asked.

‘No, but the door’s unlocked. Help yourself,’ Strieger said.

‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ Bleck said, and when Strieger had served him, he wandered off into a corner of the room and sat down, pushing his hat to the back of his head and loosening his tie.

Bleck was feeling off-colour and moody that night. This café holdup idea of Morgan’s worried him.

Bleck had begun with many more advantages than the other three. His father had been a successful storekeeper who had given his son a good education. He had wanted him to become a doctor, but the drudgery of study had been too much for Bleck. After a couple of years at college he had suddenly quit and had left home. He had become a car salesman and, at the same time, had discovered an insatiable appetite for women. He had spent more than he had earned, and when his debts had got out of hand, he had helped himself to the contents of the firm’s safe which had amounted to nearly four thousand dollars. He had been under the mistaken impression that he had covered his tracks, and it came as a shock to him when two detectives closed in on him before he had had the chance of spending more than two hundred dollars of the loot. He went to prison for six months. This happened when he was twenty-two. Since then he had served two further sentences in prison: one of two years and one of four. He had now a horror of prison.

While serving his last sentence, he had met Morgan who was completing his fifteenth year: a sentence that had turned Bleck’s blood cold. They came out together, and when Morgan suggested they should join forces, Bleck had agreed.

He had agreed because of Morgan’s reputation. Those in the know had told him that Morgan was going to be Mr. Big one of these days. They said that sooner or later Morgan would pull the big one, and when he did, it would be a job to remember.

Bleck was thirty-five, and he knew his future would be bleak unless he was prepared to put everything into a gamble that offered the highest possible return. He had a feeling that Morgan was big enough to handle a job that would put him in the money for the rest of his life.

As he sat in the corner of the poolroom, sipping his whisky, Bleck’s mind dwelt on his share of the money they would get from the truck. Two hundred thousand dollars! He would travel. He would try out the girls in every country in Europe. He would go to Monte Carlo and bust the bank there. He would…

Then he saw Ginny Gordon come in and his daydreams were abruptly interrupted. She came through the smoke haze, her chin tilted, her eyes hostile while the men in the poolroom stared at her, grinning at each other, winking and nudging. If it hadn’t been that Lu Strieger didn’t stand for mashing in his poolroom, she would have been besieged as she entered the bar.

Some dish, Bleck thought, eyeing her as she paused at the door that gave on to the steep staircase that led to the room Strieger rented to those who wanted some privacy.

Ginny was wearing a pair of black slacks, tight across her seat, and a bottle-green shirt, open at the neck.

But she’s a toughie, Bleck thought, finishing his whisky. Where does she come from? She could be fun. Maybe I’ll soften her up a little. After the job, we might go places together for a week or so. She’s got spirit, and with a body like that.

He got to his feet and crossed the room and followed the girl up the stairs. He overtook her as she reached the landing.

‘Hi, Ginny,’ he said. ‘We’re the first two. Those pants certainly suit your geography.’

She turned and looked at him. Her sea-green eyes were disconcertingly bleak.