Well Now My Pretty

"Oh, that . . . Tom got a sudden bee in his bonnet. Yes . . . last night. He has too much energy."

"I was wondering when you were going to dig it up. It's a nice bed . . . a good size. I have a box of petunias I can spare. They would do well there."

"Thanks a lot . . . but Tom has his own ideas."

"What's he planning to put in? Geraniums would do well too."

"I don't know and I couldn't care less," Sheila snapped. "Excuse me. I have something on the stove," and she shut the door. She stood for a long moment, then drew in a deep breath. That creep! He never misses a thing, she thought.

She now decided against cleaning up the path. As Dylan had already noticed the digging why should she do a chore Tom could do when he got home?

She looked at her watch. Every time she looked at it, she thought of the gold watch with its circle of diamonds in Ashtons, the jewellers, downtown. She longed for it, and every time she passed the shop, she stopped to stare at it. It was so cute! To think Tom was that mean he wouldn't give it to her for their anniversary!

She shrugged. It was only half past eleven. The morning seemed endless. She went into the lounge, hesitated before the TV, then, deciding there couldn't be any programme to hold her attention, she dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She was now beginning to feel sorry that she had agreed to stay in the bungalow all day. It was all right for Tom. He was getting around, talking to people. But she was now in prison! But she knew she daren't go out . . . suppose someone . . . but who? She sat up, frowning. The money was buried. Who could possibly come here and dig up the garden? It was a ridiculous thought. She hesitated, then decided she would go out. At least, she could go to the Sandwich Bar and have lunch. That would make a change from sitting in this dreary hole all day. Yes, she would do that.

She went into the bedroom and changed her shoes. As she was getting her coat out of the closet, the front-door bell rang.

If it's Dylan again, I'll kill him! she thought and marched angrily down the passage and jerked open the front door. Then she stiffened, startled.

A small, slimly built clergyman stood on the doorstep. He was carrying a shabby suitcase and he looked at her, his grey eyes mild behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. His shock of white hair made two big wings under his black hat.

"Mrs. Whiteside?"

"Yeah, but I'm busy," Sheila said, curtly. "Sorry, we don't give to the church," and she began to shut the door.

"I have come about the money, Mrs. Whiteside," Maisky said gently. "The money you stole."

Sheila turned to stone. She felt the blood drain out of her face. The shock of his words made such a devastating impact on her, she thought she was going to faint.

He watched her reaction with a cruel little smile.

"I am so sorry to upset you like this." His cold, snake's eyes moved over her body. "May I come in?" He moved forward, riding her back down the passage. He closed and locked the front door.

Sheila pulled herself together.

"Get out or I'll call the police!" she said huskily.

"That would be a pity, Mrs. Whiteside. Then neither of us would have the money. After all, there is enough for us to share . . . two and a half million dollars. Is this your living-room?" He peered into the room, then entered, setting down his suitcase. He took off his hat and walked over to the lounging chair, noticing with distaste the ashtrays spilling cigarette butts on to the floor, the used glasses standing on the sideboard, the film of dust everywhere and he grimaced. He had high standards of cleanliness. He decided this beautiful looking girl was a slut. "Do you mind if I sit down? I haven't been too well recently . . . exciting times." He looked slyly at her and laughed.

She stood in the doorway, watching him, wondering what she should do. He must be the fifth robber the police were looking for, but got up like this! A clergyman! Then she realised his cleverness. No policeman would give him a second glance.

"I don't want you here," she said, trying to steady her voice. "I know nothing about the money . . . now, get out!"

"Please don't be stupid." He crossed one thin leg over the other. "I saw you and your husband take my car. The money was in the boot. When you brought the car back, the money wasn't in the boot. So ." He lifted his hands. "I don't blame you for taking it. What have you done with it?"

"It's not here. I—I don't know what you are talking about."

Maisky studied her. She moved uneasily as their eyes met. She had never seen such malevolent eyes. They sent a chill through her.

"Mrs. Whiteside, when I play a role, I like to remain in character. At the moment, as you can see, I am playing the role of a kindly, harmless clergyman." He paused, then leaning forward, his face a sudden mask of terrifying, snarling fury. "You had better make sure I remain that way, you stinking whore, or I'll teach you such a goddamn lesson you won't ever forget it!"