James Chase - The World in My Pocket

‘Come on! Come on!’ Morgan shouted furiously. ‘What’s scaring you, you fat jelly?’

‘If he shoots me, who’ll open the truck?’ Gypo panted, playing his trump card.

Morgan drew in a long, exasperated breath.

‘Give me the tools, you creep!’ he snarled. ‘But I’ll fix you and I’ll fix your pal, Ed, too! If you two imagine you’re going to get your full share, you’ve another think coming!’

Right at that moment Gypo would have gladly given up the whole of his share if he could have been transported from this horrifying caravan to his little shed he called his home. He backed away as Morgan snatched the tools out of his hand.

Holding the end of the tyre lever against the gap between the steel shutter and the window, he hammered it home. The lever sank between the frame and the shutter, forcing the shutter back slightly.

Morgan continued to hammer until he had driven four inches of the lever out of sight, then he dropped the hammer and looked at Bleck.

‘You going to be yellow too?’ he said.

Bleck pulled his .38 from his shoulder holster and moved up close to Morgan.

‘When you are ready, I am,’ he said, his face set, his eyes determined.

Morgan grinned crookedly at him. ‘Trying to save your share?’

‘Skip it, Frank. Go ahead. I’m ready to take him.’

As Morgan was about to throw his weight on the lever, there came three quick thumps on the side of the caravan that stopped him dead.

‘Someone’s coming,’ he said. ‘Hold it!’

Bleck moved to the window and peered through the curtain. A car, towing a caravan, had stopped within a few yards of where Ginny was sitting by the side of the road. A middle-aged man whose jolly fat face was burned red by the sun, was getting out of the car. There was a woman and a young boy in the car, looking towards the Buick and the caravan.

Bleck heard the fat man say, ‘Hey, miss, can I help? Looks like you’ve got a flat.’

Ginny smiled at him.

‘It’s all right, thank you. My husband can manage. Thanks all the same.’

‘You’re going up to Fawn Lake?’ the man asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘So are we. I was there last summer. Have you been there before?’

Ginny shook her head.

‘No.’

‘You’ll like it. It’s terrific, and they know how to treat you. My name’s Fred Bradford. That’s my wife, Millie and Fred junior, my kid. You got any kids?’

Ginny laughed.

Listening to this, Bleck marvelled that her laugh sounded so natural.

‘Well, no, not yet,’ she said. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

Bradford smacked his thigh. His good-natured laugh grated on the ears of the listening men.

‘Say! That’s a good one! Hear that, Millie! They’re on their honeymoon, and big mouth has to ask if they’ve got any kids.’

The woman in the car frowned disapprovingly.

‘Come on, Fred,’ she called sharply. ‘You’re embarrassing the lady.’

‘Yes, I guess I am,’ Bradford said, grinning. ‘Excuse me, Mrs . . e r . did I get your name?’

‘Harrison,’ Ginny said. ‘I’m sorry my husband is so busy.’

‘Think nothing of it. Well, maybe we’ll see more of you both,’ Bradford said. ‘Anyway, if we don’t, a happy honeymoon.’

‘Thanks,’ Ginny said.

The man went back to his car, got in and waved; then he drove on up the road.

Morgan and Bleck exchanged uneasy glances.

‘If this punk starts shooting,’ Bleck said, ‘they’ll hear the shot.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Morgan said, feeling too bad to care. ‘They must hunt in these woods. They’ll think it’s some guy after game.’ He took hold of the tyre lever. ‘Come on! Let’s take him!’

Kitson called through the window.

‘What’s going on?’

Morgan paused to lift the window an inch.

‘Stay right where you are,’ he said. ‘Just warn us if anyone else comes. We’re going to take him now.’

Kitson backed away, feeling suddenly sick.

Morgan shut the window and nodded at Bleck.

‘Ready?’

‘Yeah.’

As Morgan pulled down on the tyre lever, Gypo hid his face in his hands.

Dave Thomas, the driver of the truck, lay on the floor of the truck, suffering the agony of his shattered jaw with the stoic courage of the undefeated.

Morgan’s bullet had passed through the lower part of his face, smashing the jaw bone and cutting a furrow across his tongue. The pain and shock had caused him to go off in a long faint, and it was some time before he came to. He was immediately aware that he was bleeding badly.

He lay only half aware what had happened, and wondering how it was possible for the truck to be moving and yet no one driving it.

He didn’t think he had very long to live. No one could lose the amount of blood he was losing and survive, but dying didn’t frighten him. He was sure that if a miracle did happen and he did live, there wasn’t much they could do about his injuries. He had no wish to go around looking like a freak and perhaps not being able to speak.

What held his concentrated interest was the jolting movement of the truck. He decided finally, and after some thought, that they must have got the truck into some kind of vehicle, and he thought this was a pretty smart move, but not smart enough. He had only to press down the switch on the radio set to send out a continuous signal that would home the police on to the truck, no matter how cleverly hidden it was.

This was something he felt he should do right away, but the radio set was immediately behind and above him and, to get at it, he would have to turn on his side and reach up with his arm above his head.

He knew if he moved over on his side, he would inflict pain on himself when, by lying still, the pain was at least bearable. So he lay very still, his eyes closed, and he thought about the lean, wolfish face of the man who had shot him. He wondered who the man was. The girl in the sports car was also in it. The whole plan had been pretty smart. That smash had looked convincing, and he was glad that Mike Dirkson, the guard, hadn’t been stampeded and had called the Agency and had reported the smash, otherwise the Agency might think they had been taken for a pair of suckers. At least they had had the Agency’s permission to investigate, not that that had done them any good then or now.

To think a kid as pretty as that girl, Thomas thought drowsily, could have got mixed up in such a desperate business. She reminded him a little of Carrie, his thirteen-year old daughter.

Carrie had the same coloured hair, but she wasn’t anything like as pretty as this girl, although she might grow up to be a beauty. One never knew about those things: it was just a matter of luck.

His daughter had always admired him, calling him her hero. She was always telling him how brave he was to drive a truck full of money.

He thought: well, she wouldn’t think I’m so damned brave now if she could see me lying here, and not doing anything about saving the truck just because I haven’t the guts to turn over on my side. She certainly wouldn’t think much of me now. There were two things he could do to save the truck: one was to set the radio signal going and the other was to press the button to scramble the time lock.

The scrambler button was near the steering wheel. To get at it, he would have to sit up and lean forward and what that movement would do to his shattered jaw made him sweat just to think of it.

Carrie would expect him to save the truck. His wife, Harriette, wouldn’t. She would understand, but Carrie had standards, and he would no longer be a hero to her if he didn’t try to save the truck. The Agency too would expect him to save the truck. If he did manage to make the effort, they might prove generous and take care of his wife and Carrie. You couldn’t be sure what they would do, of course, but it was pretty certain if these thugs broke into the truck, the Agency would think he hadn’t done his duty, and that might make a difference when it came to paying out a pension for Harriette: it might make a hell of a difference.