Well Now My Pretty

"I am moving three million dollars in cash from the bank to the Casino tomorrow morning. I'll have four of my guards with the truck, but I would also like a police escort. That's a lot of money, and I want to be sure it arrives all in one piece."

"That's easy. We'll have six men with you," Terrell said.

"Thanks, Frank, I knew I could rely on you. Then I would like three or four of your men at the Casino in the evening. I don't anticipate trouble. I have twenty good men of my own, but I think it would have a depressing effect on anyone with ambitions to see the police were around too."

"I'll fix that. You can have Lepski and four patrolmen." Lewis nodded.

"Lepski would be just the man. Well, thanks, Frank." He tapped ash off his cigarette, then went on, "What's the situation like? Anyone here I should know about?"

"No. We have had a number of hopefuls, but they have been recognised and turned back. From the reports I've been looking at we haven't one really dangerous specimen in town." Terrell finished his coffee and began to fill his pipe. "You can relax, Harry. I'm satisfied. We have really been working on this thing. There is, of course, the odd chance that some amateur might have a try at you, but with the extra precautions, you don't need to worry." He regarded Lewis thoughtfully. "You have no reason to worry, have you?"

"No reason . . . I worry just the same."

"Well, don't. What time are you collecting the money from the bank?"

"Ten-thirty sharp."

"Okay. I'll have my men at the bank and they will escort you. Okay?"

Lewis got to his feet.

"I think I will relax," he said and shook hands.

When he had gone, Beigler reached for the carton of coffee.

"Three million dollars!" His voice was outraged. "What a goddam waste of money! Think what one could do with all that dough . . . and it's going to be used to give a bunch of Spicks a thrill."

Terrell eyed him, then nodded.

"It's their money, Joe. It's our job to take care of it for them." He flicked down the switch on his inter-corn. "Charles? Where's Lepski? I want him."

* * *

At seven o'clock on this Friday morning, Serge Maisky got out of bed, put on the coffee percolator and then took a shower. He shaved with a cut-throat razor, dressed, then went into the small kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Carrying the cup into the shabby living-room, he sat down and sipped the coffee.

So far, he decided, everything was going according to plan. Jess Chandler was staying at the Beach Hotel. Perry was at the Bay Hotel, Mish Collins was at the Sunshine Hotel and Wash was at the Welcome Motel. Tonight, the four men would come to his bungalow and rehearse their particular jobs. He was now satisfied, having met the men, that he had a team he could rely on. Mish Collins' choice had been sound.

He finished his coffee, washed up the cup and saucer, then went to a closet where he had stored two five-gallon plastic containers. These he filled with water from the kitchen tap. He then collected a fair-sized carton full of canned food from another closet in the kitchen. He carried the carton to his Buick and put it in the boot. He then went back and carried out the two plastic containers which he also put in the boot.

His movements were slow and deliberate. He was feeling his years. He was sharply conscious that he was sixty-two and exertion of any kind didn't agree with him.

He paused for a long moment to make certain he had forgotten nothing, then, remembering the batteries for his flashlight, he collected them from a drawer in his living-room and now decided he was ready to go.

He locked the door of his bungalow and then walked to his car, slid under the driving wheel and started the motor.

Thirty minutes later on the highway out of Seacombe, which was a suburb of Paradise City, Maisky edged the car on to the far right-hand lane, then swung off on to a dirt road that led in a climbing drive into the pine forest that circled the outskirts of Seacombe and Paradise City.

The road was narrow and he drove with care. One never knew, even at this early hour, if someone might come belting down the road which was scarcely wide enough to take two cars. But he met no one. Finally, after driving through the forest for twenty minutes, he again swung off the dirt road and on to a narrow track, leading into the depths of the forest. He slowed long enough to inspect the sign that he himself had painted and erected two days ago. The sign read: Game Preserve. Private. Keep out. He gave a nod of approval as he continued up the track. The sign was weathering. He had to admit it was well executed, and it looked convincing.