Well Now My Pretty

"I just didn't think . . . nor did Tom. We were worried about leaving the camping equipment in our car. We had borrowed it and it could have been stolen while we were walking down to the bus stop. I just refused to be left alone in that forest . . . it scared me." She paused and looked at Beigler, inviting his sympathy. He thought: I'd like to have you alone, baby . . . a desert island for preference. She switched her gaze back to Terrell. "So we didn't think. Tom had a master key. We put our things in the car and took off. As soon as we got home, we unpacked, then got a new pump and went back. We left the Buick right where we had found it. Tom fitted the new pump and we drove home."

Terrell scratched the side of his jaw. This sounded like the truth, he thought. O'Toole's report jelled with hers.

"Did you look in the boot?" he asked Tom.

Tom started, hesitated, then shook his head.

"Why, no. We—we just threw our stuff on the back seat. No . . . we didn't look in the boot."

Terrell got to his feet.

"I'll have to ask you to show us where you left the Buick . . . right now."

"Of course." Tom got to his feet. "I'll just put on my jacket."

As he left the room, Sheila stood up.

"You really mean, Chief, that we were driving the gangster's car?"

"I guess so," Terrell said, aware that Beigler's eyes were roving over Sheila's body.

"Well!" Sheila spun around to Maisky who was now standing. "I guess we'll be able to eat out on this story for weeks!"

"Quite extraordinary," Maisky said. "But I really don't understand what it is all about." He peered at Terrell. "Why do you imagine the car was hidden, Inspector?"

Terrell muttered something, then walked to the door. This little, white-haired clergyman bored him.

Tom came out of the bedroom. His white, drawn face sent a pang of fear through Sheila. The dope could yet spoil everything, she thought.

"All set, Chief," Tom said.

Sheila ran to him and kissed his cheek—something she hadn't done for as long as he could remember. Then, with a wifely gesture, she straightened his tie.

"You won't keep him long, Chief," she said to Terrell. "He really is sick, but he's being awfully good about it."

"We won't be long, Mrs. Whiteside."

Terrell opened the front door, then, followed by Tom Beigler, went down the garden path.

Sheila stood in the doorway and watched the three men get in the car. Then Lepski came down the road and joined them. As he slid under the wheel, Jacoby squeezed in at the back.

The car drove away.

"Very nicely done, my pretty," Maisky said as Sheila came into the living-room. "I couldn't have done better myself."

She ignored him. Going to the cocktail cabinet, she poured out a stiff gin and drank it. Then shuddering, she put down the glass.

"Just as long as that fool doesn't make a mistake," she said more to herself than to Maisky, then she went into her bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

As the police car reached the path leading to the glade, Tom said, "This is it. Up that path . . . that's where I left the car."

Lepski pulled up. He, Jacoby and Beigler spilled out of the car, drawing their guns, leaving the car doors hanging open. They started up the path, moving cautiously.

Terrell got out, gun in hand.

"Stay right here, Mr. Whiteside," he said. "This guy could be around, and he's dangerous." He followed the others up the path.

Tom took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. His hands were shaking so badly, he had trouble in lighting his cigarette, but he was feeling more confident. The drive from the bungalow had been better than he had imagined it would be. Going with these policemen had given him, at first, the nightmare feeling of being arrested but, as it turned out, it wasn't like that at all.

About the first words Terrell had said as the car moved off were, "I knew your dad . . . a fine man . . . I would say, he was the finest man we have ever had in this City. He took care of Carrie . . . that's my wife . . . when she was in real trouble. You have nothing to worry about. These things happen."

Tom recalled his father. He must have been a very special type of man, he thought, and yet I never realised it. It's only when people as old as Terrell talked about him, he comes alive, and yet he was always decent to me . . . decent and understanding. I was just too goddamn dumb to appreciate him. He dragged hard on his cigarette. He thought of all that money buried in the garden. He must have been out of his mind to let Sheila dominate him. He should have told the police the moment he had found the carton in the boot. He moved uneasily. It was too late now. Well, he now made up his mind. He wasn't going to touch a dollar of that money. Sheila could take it all, and she could clear out. He drew in a long, deep breath. What a relief it would be to be rid of her! The past year had been the unhappiest he had ever lived through. Let her take the money and go!

Ten minutes later, Jacoby came running down the path. He grabbed the telephone receiver in the car and started talking to headquarters.