paused, looked at the four men, then asked politely, 'Are there any questions?'
Chandler regarded the truck. He felt much more relaxed. The more he listened to this little man explain his plan, the more confident he became of success.
'What happens if we run into trouble at the Casino?' he asked. This was a question that was haunting him.
'What kind of trouble?' Maisky asked, raising his eyebrows. His calmness again added to Chandler's growing confidence. 'I don't anticipate trouble.'
'You can't say that . . . none of us knows,' Chandler said sharply. 'We might not get into the vault.'
Maisky shrugged.
'In that case, we don't get the money . . . it's as simple as that. But I am sure you will get into the vault.'
'What happens if we get the money and someone sets off the alarm?'
'No one will set off the alarm because Mish will have put it out of action.'
Chandler moved uneasily. He was searching for trouble. 'Suppose some guard gets nosy?'
'Then Jack will take care of him.'
There was a long pause, then Chandler said, 'You mean he will kill the guard?'
'Listen, buddy-boy,' Perry said in his soft, giggling voice, 'don't worry your gut about what happens to who. You take care of your job . . . I'll take care of mine.'
'We are going to make three hundred thousand dollars each out of this operation,' Maisky said. 'You have to break eggs to make an omelette.'
Chandler looked at Mish and Wash.
'Do you two want to get yourselves tied up in a murder rap?' he asked.
'Now, wait . . .' Maisky's voice was sharp. 'I am satisfied that this operation will work. We don't have to consider violence. You are looking for trouble that doesn't exist.'
'I don't want to be tied to a murder rap,' Chandler said, and there was sweat on his face.
'Then what the hell are you here for?' Perry said. 'Look, buddyboy, be your age. Do your job and keep your worry gut of a mouth shut.'
Again there was a pause, then Chandler, thinking of all that money, suddenly shrugged.
'So, okay . . . I keep my mouth shut . . .'
Mish said, now a little uneasy, 'But suppose it does turn sour? Just what do we do?'
'It won't, but I agree with you, we should know what to do,' Maisky said. 'Whatever happens we come back here . . . if we have the money, we split it and go on our own ways . . . if we haven't got it, we still split up, but let us make this place here, which is quite safe, a meeting place after the operation.'
Chandler hesitated, but he was now committed. He wasn't too happy, and he was scared of Perry, but the thought of all that money pushed him to agree.
'Okay . . . the uniforms are fine . . . the truck is fine . . . now let's look at the schedule.'
Maisky smiled.
'Of course.'
He led the way back to the bungalow.
Three
THREE TIMES, during this hot Saturday morning, the telephone bell in Lana Evans' one room apartment rang continuously for several minutes. The nagging, persistent sound disturbed the Persian cat who still sat obstinately before the refrigerator, every now and then emitting a yowl of impatient indignation.
The first caller, around ten o'clock, was Terry Nicols, Lana's boyfriend. He listened to the steady, unanswered burr-burr-burr with exasperation. He knew Lana never got out of bed before ten. She couldn't still be sleeping with the telephone bell ringing like this! He wanted to make a date with her for Sunday night which was her night off. The two students who were his friends and who were waiting outside the telephone booth, kept showing him their wrist-watches through the sudty glass door. The time for the first morning's lecture was nearly due. With the exaggeration of youth, they began an elaborate count-down, and finally when they reached zero, they exploded into a pantomime of panic. Terry slammed down the receiver and raced with them across the corridor to the lecture room.
At eleven o'clock, Rita Watkins phoned from the Casino. She listened to the unanswered ring, then, frowning, a little worried, she replaced the receiver.
At one-thirty, Terry, munching a sandwich, again tried to contact Lana, then, failing again, he decided she must be on the beach, sunbathing. Irritated, he hung up. At little after two o'clock, Rita Watkins called again. Maria Wells hadn't been a success in the vault. This was understandable. The work was exacting and had to be done at high speed. Maria just hadn't the experience. Rita quailed at the thought of having her on this Saturday night when the pressure would be on. She just had to have Lana Evans back on the job.
What could have happened to the girl? she wondered as she replaced the receiver. She had a couple of hours to spare and she decided to drive over and find out for herself.
Mrs. Mavdick owned the apartment block. She was a large woman with jet-black dyed hair and an enormous floppy bosom which she held together under her soiled cotton wrap.
She regarded Rita's trim figure with disapproval. Those firm breasts, that flat stomach, the long shapely legs
