Well Now My Pretty

Maisky listening to this smiled. Well, he thought, at least I now don't have to worry about the man. All I have to do is to watch this bitch.

He nipped back to his chair as Sheila came down the passage.

"Your tea is getting cold, my pretty," he said. "Did I hear you two arguing about something?"

"Mind your own business!" Sheila snapped, taking her cup of tea. She walked to the window and stared out, her mind busy.

Maisky stared at her, then shrugged. He walked to the TV Set and turned it on.

"Oh, give it a rest, can't you?" Sheila said without turning.

"Certainly not." Maisky consulted his watch. "It is time for the news. In our situation, my pretty, it is always well to keep up with the news."

Halfway through the programme, the announcer said, "we have several items of news concerning the Casino robbery. As we announced last night, the police are still warning all banks and shops to look out for any $500 bills that might be offered for change. These bills must not be accepted unless the person offering them is known and the name and address of the owner written on the bill. The police are also . . ."

She dropped her cup. It fell on the parquet floor, spilling the hot tea and smashing into pieces. Slowly, she put down the saucer, a cold fear gripping her heart.

Marshall . . . the watch! Had he put her name on the bill she had given him? Had he?

At the sound of the smashing cup, Maisky jerked around in his chair. He saw her expression of fear, the tightness of her mouth, her scared, glittering eyes and he knew at once she had spent one or more of the bills.

He remained motionless for a long second, his face convulsed with rage, then, feeling his heart begin to hammer, he got slowly to his feet.

"You bitch!" he said, his voice strangled. "You've spent some of the money . . . haven't you?"

Sheila stepped back, shaken by the vicious expression on his thin face. He was suddenly transformed into a deadly, wild animal.

"No!"

"You're lying! You spent some of that money!"

"I tell you I didn't!"

He left the room, moving swiftly, and burst into the bedroom where Tom was lying on the bed.

"Get up! Your whore has spent some of the money! What could she have bought?" Maisky's voice was shrill with rage. "Search the place! She's spent some of the money!"

With a feeling of dread, Tom got off the bed.

"She couldn't have . . . she's not that stupid," he said.

Maisky glared around the room, then he rushed to the chest of drawers and pulled out the top drawer. The drawer fell to the floor and Maisky, muttering, half insane with rage and fear, upended it.

The .25 automatic and the gold watch came into sight from between a pair of blue panties and a bra.

* * *

Beigler poured coffee into two paper cups. He passed one cup to Terrell, and then carried the other to his desk.

"Look, Chief," he said as he sat down, "have you thought the Whitesides could have found the money and are sitting on it?"

Terrell sipped the coffee and then began to load his pipe.

"Not Tom Whiteside, Joe. We have to keep this thing in the right perspective. I've known his father for years . . . he was a saint."

"Does that make his son a saint?" Beigler asked patiently.

"All right, Joe . . . it doesn't, of course, but he's not the type. For one thing, he wouldn't know what to do with all that money."

"But his wife would."

Terrell scratched the side of his jaw and frowned at Beigler.

"No, it still doesn't add up. It's my bet Maisky had another car. He moved the carton into this car, leaving the Buick. I think he's hidden the carton somewhere and has left town. He'll come back in three or four months."

"Where do you imagine he has hidden the carton that size?" Beigler asked.

"Could be anywhere . . . the beach . . . a left-luggage office . . . any damn place."

Beigler sipped his coffee and rubbed the end of his thick nose. Watching him, Terrell recognised the signs, then he said, "The boot was locked, Joe." He was reading Beigler's mind. "Neither of the Whitesides could know the carton was in the boot."

Beigler picked up the telephone receiver.

"Charlie? Get me Mr. Locking of General Motors."

Terrell put down his cup of coffee and regarded Beigler with worried eyes.

There was a short delay, then Beigler said, "Mr. Locking? This is Sergeant Beigler, City Police. Sorry to bother you, but I have a little query you could help me with. With a Buick coupe, can the ignition key open the boot or do you have to have a separate key?" He listened, then said, "Thanks, Mr. Locking . . . much obliged," and hung up. He looked at Terrell. "The ignition key can open the boot of a Buick coupe, Chief."

Terrell sat back.

"Whiteside said it couldn't?"

Beigler nodded.

"That's what he said."

They looked at each other, then Terrell pushed back his chair and stood up. As Beigler once again slid his .38 into its holster, the telephone bell rang. Impatiently, he snatched up the receiver.

"The Head Teller of the Florida Bank is asking to speak to the Chief," Tanner told him.

Beigler passed the receiver to Terrell.