Well Now My Pretty

"You put our address on our car! That man could find our car and he'll know we have the money! Oh, God! How stupid can you be?"

"We're taking the money to the police," Tom said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "So, okay, let him know we have it . . . why should we care?"

"We're not taking the money to the police. Can't you ever use that thing you call a head? If we turn the money over to the police, they will cash in on the reward! Have you ever had any reason to trust a cop? Come on, Tom, help me get this carton into the house. We've got to take this car back fast!"

"Take the car back? What do you mean?"

She turned on him, her eyes blazing and she slapped him heavily across the face, sending him reeling.

"Help me get this money into the house!" she said, her voice low and furious.

Her expression scared him. Muttering, unnerved, he dragged the carton out of the car. Together, they staggered with it into the living-room and dropped it heavily on the worn carpet. Sheila ran to the window and pulled down the blind.

"Come on! We'll get the pump and drive back. Every minute we waste could put us into worse trouble!"

He caught hold of her arm and jerked her around.

"What are you planning to do? What is all this?"

Her eyes glittering, her face white, she faced him.

"I'm handling this! You're going to do what I tell you! I've lived a year with you and I've had enough of your crummy way of life! Two and a half million dollars! We've got it! No one knows we have it. Now, listen to me . . . we're going to keep it! Do you hear me? We're going to keep every dollar of it!"

* * *

Maisky watched the Buick back out of the hide, turn and then drive down the short track to the dirt road. Two and a half million dollars! Going away from him after all his planning! He felt so bad he thought he was going to die.

He lay on the damp floor of the cave, his face resting on the back of his cold hand. He heard voices, then he heard the Buick drive away.

Who could these two be? He wondered. Why had they taken his car? They looked honest enough. Why had they taken his car?

He made the effort and sat up. They must have come in a car . . . where was it?

He stared down at the steep path that led from the cave to the glade. Then, moving aside the branches that covered the mouth of the cave, he started down the path, moving slowly, terrified that the pain in his chest might return.

Finally, he reached the glade. He looked around, then continued on down the path to the dirt road. There he saw a dusty Corvette Sting Ray under the trees and a slip of paper under one of the windscreen wipers. He approached the car and slid the paper from under the windscreen wiper.

He read Tom's message.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the car. So this was the explanation. They had broken down and had borrowed the Buick, but they were coming back! With any luck, they wouldn't look in the boot. How could they? They hadn't the key. Then he stiffened. The man had started the car . . . how had he done it, if he hadn't the key? That key would also open the boot! Well, maybe they wouldn't open the boot.

With a shaking hand he copied Whiteside's address down on the back of an old bill he had found in his pocket. Then he put Tom's note back under the windscreen wiper.

Well, now all he could do was to hope. They looked honest people. They would return the car, fix their own car and that would be the last he would see of them . . . with any luck. He hesitated, his cunning mind now very alert. Would they wonder what the car was doing in the glade? Would they report finding it to the police? Maybe he had better leave when they returned the car. But where could he go? He was now feeling weak and breathless again. He longed to lie down and rest. Moving cautiously, he made his way back to the cave.

* * *

Patrolman Fred O'Toole looked at his watch. In another ten minutes he would be off duty . . . and about time too! He had had more than enough of checking this continuous flow of cars leaving the City, and his temper was frayed.

Then he saw a car coming and he groaned to himself. He stepped out into the middle of the outward lane, holding up his hand.

The Buick coupe slowed and Tom Whiteside leaned out of the window. His face was pale under his sun-tan and his grin forced.

"Hi, Fred."

"Oh, you . . ." O'Toole looked puzzled. "I thought I saw you going home . . ." He came to the window and peered in at Tom and Sheila.

"Yeah . . . I'm now taking this car back," Tom said.

"Hello, Mr. O'Toole," Sheila said brightly. She gave him a sexy smile. "Long time no see. How do you like my sun-tan?"

O'Toole had always thought she was the most gorgeous piece of tail he had ever seen. He smiled at her, eyeing her breasts. "You look good enough to eat, Mrs. Whiteside. Had a good time?"

"Did you ever take your wife on a camping vacation, Mr. O'Toole?"

O'Toole laughed.

"I don't look for trouble."

"Well, my love of a hubby doesn't know trouble when he sees it. But it wasn't all that bad."