James Chase - The World in My Pocket

She frowned when she thought of Kitson. He was so obviously in love with her. Her cold, calculating mind warmed a little as she remembered the expression in his eyes and his desperate anxiety to please during the drive to Marlow.

When she had the money, the wolves would move in, trying to get it from her. She was sure of that. It might not be such a bad idea to join up with Kitson. Between the two of them, they would have half a million dollars. He wouldn’t be hard to handle and she felt certain he was dependable. It would be safer too. People might wonder how a girl of twenty came to be so rich: a girl on her own was always suspect.

It was something to think about.

Morgan was the first to arrive.

He pulled up outside Gypo’s workshop as the hands on the Buick’s dashboard clock stood at ten minutes to eight. The previous night, he, Bleck and Gypo had worked over the car until they were satisfied that it was one hundred percent efficient, and Morgan had then taken it back to his place, giving it a tryout.

He found Gypo checking the tools he had put in the cupboard in the caravan.

He saw immediately that Gypo was pale, and his breathing laboured. When he handled the tools, his hands were shaking. That should pass, Morgan thought. It had got to pass.

Even he felt strung up now that they were so near to the first step in the plan, and he could excuse Gypo for feeling nervous, but he didn’t intend to excuse him if he didn’t settle down, and settle down fast.

‘Hi, Gypo,’ he said. ‘You okay?’

‘Sure,’ Gypo said, not meeting his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a hot day. Better the sun than the rain, huh?’

Ginny came into the shed, carrying a picnic basket and her suitcase.

Morgan thought the girl looked as if she had slept badly. There were shadows under her eyes and she seemed pale under her make-up.

‘Well, this is it,’ he said, going over to her. ‘Worried?’

She looked at him, her sea-green eyes impersonal and cool.

‘No more than you.’

He grinned at her.

‘That makes you worried then,’ he said.

Kitson came in, followed by Bleck.

Morgan had an immediate suspicion that Bleck had been drinking. His face was flushed, and he walked with a swagger.

This gave Morgan his first twinge of uneasiness.

Kitson seemed nervy, but much more in control of himself than either Gypo or Bleck, and this surprised Morgan.

It was now two minutes to eight, and he saw no point in hanging around stretching nerves that were already too taut.

‘Okay, fellows, let’s go,’ he said curtly. ‘Get the caravan out, you three. Ginny, take the MG and get over to the Agency.’

He walked with her to the car and watched her get in. He stood over her, looking down at her, thinking how cool she was and admiring her.

‘You know what to do, and you’ll do it right,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

She gave him a ghost of a smile and then started the engine.

Kitson came hurrying over.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Be careful how you drive. That car’s fast.’

She looked up at him and nodded.

‘Thanks: good luck to you,’ and, letting in the clutch, she drove the car out of the workshop.

Five minutes later, the Buick nosed its way out of the workshop, hauling the caravan.

Morgan and Bleck were sitting on the floor of the caravan.

Kitson was driving.

Gypo closed the doors of the workshop, then he hung a sign on the padlock that read: Closed for the Summer Vacation. He had a sudden presentiment that he would never see this old ramshackle shed again, where he had spent fifteen idle years of his life. Although he hadn’t earned much from the workshop he had grown to love it as only a sentimental Italian could love a place like this, and there were tears in his eyes as he got into the caravan.

‘What’s the matter, greaseball?’ Bleck demanded savagely. His nerves were crawling. ‘What the hell are you so sad about?’

‘Cut it out!’ Morgan barked, making room for Gypo. His cold, dangerous eyes made Bleck look away. Then punching Gypo lightly on his chest, Morgan said, ‘You’re going to have something a lot better than this. Your own villa, your own vines and as many cigars as you can smoke. Think of how the women will flock after you when they know you’re worth two hundred thousand bucks!’

Gypo nodded, forcing a watery smile.

‘I hope so, Frank. It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’

‘Sure, it’ll be all right,’ Morgan said. ‘You leave it to me. I’ve always steered you right, haven’t I?’

By the time they reached the dirt road leading up to the bottleneck the three men in the caravan were hot, sore and short-tempered. They hadn’t realized how hot it would be in that confined space with the sun beating down on the caravan; neither had they realized the springs were far from adequate.

Kitson drove fairly fast, and the three men, with nothing to hold on to, were badly shaken as the unsprung wheels of the caravan banged over the rough surfaces of the road.

Gypo was dropped off with one of the diversion signs and a hammer. He obviously disliked being left on his own and yet he was obviously relieved that he had no further part to play in the next operation.

‘The greaseball!’ Bleck muttered as the Buick, drawing the caravan, moved on up the road. ‘If he doesn’t bust open that truck, I’ll bust him open.’

Morgan reached up and jerked the automatic rifle from the clips screwed to the roof of the caravan. He thrust the rifle into Bleck’s hands.

‘Concentrate on this,’ he said, his voice hard and cold. ‘Never mind about Gypo. You look after your job and make sure you shoot straight.’

Bleck took the rifle.

‘I could do with a drink! Let’s have a shot, Frank. There’re a couple of bottles of Scotch in that basket.’

‘Later,’ Morgan said. ‘You do your job first and then we’ll celebrate.’

The caravan slowed and then stopped. Kitson opened up the back.

They had reached the bottleneck.

The two men, Bleck carrying the rifle and Morgan a .45, got out of the caravan. They stood for a moment drawing in deep breaths of the fresh morning air, feeling the sun hot on their faces.

Morgan said to Kitson. ‘You know what to do. Listen for the whistle and then come fast.’

Kitson nodded.

‘Good luck,’ he said, staring first at Bleck and then at Morgan.

‘You slay me!’ Bleck sneered. ‘Don’t you imagine you need some luck yourself?’

Kitson shrugged, then shifted into gear and began to drive away when Morgan realized they had forgotten the crowbars.

‘Hey! Hey!’ he bawled. ‘Stop!’

Kitson pulled up and leaned out of the window.

‘Goddamn it!’ Morgan said, glaring at Bleck. ‘Do I have to think of everything? We haven’t the crowbars!’

Kitson opened the back of the caravan and Bleck got the crowbars out, then Morgan, his eyes glittering angrily, waved Kitson on. As the Buick and the caravan moved off, Morgan picked up one of the crowbars and carried it to the side of the road.

Bleck followed him.

Morgan had been over the ground around the bottleneck so often, he knew practically every shrub and bush by heart. He pointed out where Bleck was to be. He himself went to a position about six yards from Bleck.

Both men lay down and examined the road.

This was a good spot, Bleck thought, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder and squinting through the sights. He was completely hidden, and yet he had a clear field of fire with no obstructions.

He began to feel a little less uneasy, but he wished he had had a drink before leaving the caravan. The three shots of Scotch he had had before leaving his apartment were dying on him.