'Know something, pal? I want to get home. But okay, take a look,' and he opened one of the truck doors.
O'Brien peered in the dark truck.
'What's in that box?'
'The calculator . . . the one that's broken down,' Chandler said, now aware that he beginning to sweat.
'You got a pass-out?' O'Brien asked.
'Why, sure . . . old man river gave it to us,' Chandler said and jerked his thumb towards the glass box where Regan was watching what was going on.
'I want to see what's inside that box,' O'Brien said. 'Open it up.'
Perry, listening, eased out his Colt .38. To the short barrel there was screwed a four-inch silencer.
Chandler felt sick. This was about to become the moment of violence he had been dreading, but without hesitation, he pulled the carton towards the end of the truck.
O'Brien moved forward. His broad back was turned to Perry. Wash, watching, felt his heart constrict. This fool! he was thinking. This conscientious fool! If he could only let the truck go!
Listening to all this, Maisky put the clutch out and gently moved into gear.
Perry lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger as O'Brien reached forward to open the carton.
The .38 slug smashed through O'Brien's rib cage and cut his heart in two. The sound of the gun was no more than the sharp clap of hands.
O'Brien fell forward as Maisky released the clutch and sent the truck shooting forward.
For a brief moment Perry remained motionless . . . a wisp of smoke drifting from his silencer, then he jerked up the gun and fired once more. The slug smashed through the door of the truck that had swung shut as the truck shot forward.
For a paralysed moment, Sid Regan watched his old friend O'Brien as he fell, then with a reaction astonishing for a man of his age, his hand slid under the desk to where a .45 revolver had lain, gathering the rust, for several years; a gun O'Brien had given him and which Regan had treated as a joke. His horny fingers found the trigger, hooked around it and pulled with violence. The gun in the confined space went off with a nerve-shattering bang, the bullet ploughing through the wooden partition of Regan's box and whistling past Chandler so close that he felt the wind of it against his face.
As Regan fired, he rolled off his stool and out of sight behind the wooden partition.
Perry swivelled around, lifting his gun, but Chandler's tense voice halted his murderous impulse.
'Get out! Quick!' Chandler cried and, turning, he ran up the alley.
Realising in seconds he would have a mass of guards converging on the entrance to the vault, Perry followed him.
Wash, shaking with shock, moved out of the shadows and bent over O'Brien. His first thought was to see if he could help the murdered man. He turned him over. The light from the doorway fell directly on O'Brien's dead face and, shuddering, Wash straightened. This was no one he could help. He looked to right and left, hesitating. His legs were shaky. There seemed no other way of escape except up the narrow, orange-tree-lined alley. As he stared up it, Tom Lepski, gun in hand, came swiftly down. Wash stopped, hesitated, unaware he held his gun in his hand, then in a moment of panic, he plunged towards Lepski.
Lepski's gun banged once and Wash was thrown backwards. He felt a burning sensation in his chest then the stars and the big floating moon dimmed into slow, empty darkness.
* * *
Sergeant Joe Beigler suppressed a yawn, then reached for a carton of coffee that stood on his desk. He poured coffee into a paper cup, then lit a cigarette. He looked around the dimly lit Detectives' room. The only other officer on duty was Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby who was crouched over a desk, reading a book.
'What the hell are you reading?' Beigler asked. He never read anything and resented those who did.
Jacoby, the keenest officer in the City's police force, young, Jewish and good looking, glanced up.
'Assimil . . .'
Beigler blinked at him.
'Assy . . . who?'
Patiently, Jacoby explained. 'It's a French course. I'm trying to learn French, Sergeant.'
'French?' Beigler sat back, astounded. 'What the hell for?'
'Why do you learn anything?' Jacoby asked.
Beigler considered this, then he scratched his head.
'But French . . . for Pete's sake!' Beigler's fleshy face suddenly brightened. 'You reckon on going to Paris, Max?'
'I don't know. Anything's possible.'
'You want to parlez with the girls . . . that it?'
Jacoby controlled a sigh.
'That's it, Sarg,' he said, glad not to explain that he wanted to better himself.
'Listen, son, I've been to Paris,' Beigler said seriously. 'You don't have to talk French. If you want a girl, you
