Well Now My Pretty

Leaving his bed of blankets, Maisky crawled to the entrance of the cave. He peered through the branches down into the glade. It was too dark to see anything, but he could hear voices although he was too far away to distinguish what was being said.

He lay on the cold, damp floor of the cave, listening. His body trembled with weakness. Who were these people? What were they doing down there? How long would they stay?

Tom finished his meal, then taking off his windcheater and his shoes, he got into his sleeping bag. Sheila was already in hers.

"Will you try not to snore?" she said. "It only wants you to snore to make this really perfect."

"Just go to hell!" Tom said bitterly, then trying to make himself comfortable, he closed his eyes.

* * *

Sergeant Patrick O'Connor, known in the police force as Gutsey O'Connor, was sixty-one years of age. He had been in the Paradise City police force now for forty odd years. Six feet three, with an enormous belly that had earned him his nickname, a brick-red face and thinning, sandy hair, he was one of the less- liked sergeants attached to the force.

In another year, he planned to retire. He hadn't done so badly during his service career. He had made a nice slice of money putting the bite on the prostitutes, the pimps, the pushers and the queers who lived in his district. For a $10 bill, he was always ready to look the other way, and although his graft was small over a period of forty years it had totalled up to a respectable sum.

When Beigler told him to take Patrolmen Mike Collon and Sam Wand and search five hundred bungalows in the hope of finding the missing Casino robbers, O'Connor stared at Beigler as if he couldn't believe his ears, and when Beigler told him to go to the Armoury where he would be issued with tear-gas grenades and automatic weapons, Gutsey O'Connor's red face turned a purplish white.

He had heard all about the Casino robbers. They were desperate, dangerous men — one of them was a Mafia killer!

O'Connor plodded down to the Armoury thinking that this was just his luck. In another year, he would be free of this kind of caper. He would own his own bungalow, his own car and he planned to grow roses. Now he might very easily get himself killed on this goddam assignment.

He found Mike Colon and Sam Wand waiting for him in the Armoury. Both these patrolmen were young and keen. Colon was big, dark and tough looking with a growing reputation for being smart, and with a number of arrests in his book. Wand was shorter, fair, with steel-grey eyes. He too was keen and ambitious. The kind of punks, O'Connor thought sourly, he would get landed with.

"Okay, fellas," he said, "get your weapons and let's go." He drew an automatic rifle and ammunition from the Sergeant Armourer who grinned unfeelingly at him.

"Watch that big belly of yours, Gutsey," he said. "You don't want anyone to make a hole in it. I reckon there'd be enough gas out of that to light the City for a week."

"Shut your trap!" O'Connor snarled. "All very well for you . . . you just hand out a gun. I've got to use it!"

He stamped out of the Armoury. Collon and Wand exchanged winks. They followed him to the waiting police car and they all piled on. Wand took the wheel.

"North Shore," O'Connor said, "and snap it up."

The time was a little after six o'clock when they reached the first row of bungalows that skirted the beach near the Casino. The three officers got out of the car.

"Okay, fellas, start working," O'Connor said. "You know what to do. Find out who owns the place. If they've been there some time, skip the search. If they are renting the place, go over it. I'll be right here, covering you."

Wand stared at him.

"Doing what, Sarg?" he asked.

"You deaf? I'm here to cover you," O'Connor barked. "Get moving!"

The two patrolmen looked at each other in disgust, then set off towards the bungalows. They were both aware of the danger of their assignment, but neither of them hesitated. They never had had any use for Gutsey, and this act of blatant cowardice set their seal of contempt on him.

"Good luck, Mike," Wand said as he pushed open the wooden gate, leading to the first bungalow. "Watch it."

"You, too," Colon said, and moved farther down the lane to the adjacent bungalow.

The search progressed fairly swiftly and unsuccessfully. None of the people renting the bungalows objected to letting the police officers in. They had all heard about the Casino robbery, and were thrilled to be on the fringe of such a daring steal.

Around eight o'clock, the two patrolmen had covered forty of the bungalows, and it was now growing dark. Gutsey O'Connor was sitting in the police car, resting his feet and dozing. He was no longer taking any interest in the search, being convinced it was now just routine and the wanted men weren't hiding in his district.

But Wand and Callon didn't relax. They knew that any moment they might turn up these three men and then there would be a battle. Young and as tough as they were, the strain was beginning to tell.