the engine, found the right gear and let in the clutch. He headed the car down the tunnel of darkness, knowing he just had to reach Maisky's bungalow before he bled to death.
Maisky edged the Buick into the hide. He was having great difficulty with his breathing and he was now seriously alarmed. The dull pain in his chest was acute. He was feeling on the point of collapse. He had been mad, he told himself, to have tried to shift the carton without unloading it. He had probably strained his heart. He snapped off the headlights.
Well, he would now have to rest. Here, he was safe. He was sure of that. The police would never think of looking for him in this glade. The thing to do was to get up to the cave, taking it slowly, then lie down on the bed of blankets. In an hour or so, he would feel better.
But when he opened the car door and began to get out, a shocking pain struck him in his chest, making him fall back against the
seat, his clawlike hands clutching at his chest. For a horrible moment, he thought he was going to die.
He half lay, half sat, waiting, and the pain gradually receded: like a savage animal that had pounced, struck at him, and then drawn back.
He realised he had suffered a heart attack, and his thin lips came off his teeth in a snarl of frustrated fury. After all his planning, all his trouble, the danger and the risks he had taken and just when he was within sight of owning two million dollars . . . this must happen to him!
He remained motionless for more than an hour, trying to breathe gently, terrified to move lest the pain struck him again. He thought of all the money locked in the boot. There was no hope now of getting it up to the cave. It would have to remain in the boot and he would have to hope the hide was good enough to conceal the car should someone pass near by, but it was essential for him, somehow, to get himself up to the cave where the contents of his medical chest might save him.
As he lay waiting for his strength to return, he thought of the young man he had shot. How long would his body remain undiscovered? Had anyone heard the shot? There had been a number of transistor radios blaring on the beach. Their noise might have covered the sound of the shot. The police were certain to connect the shooting with the robbery. The truck was there to tell them. He wondered if the others had got away. The chances were that they had, but if one or more were caught, would they talk? Would they give the police a description of him?
He was now beginning to feel a little better, although very weak. Cautiously, holding on to the side of the car, he drew himself upright. He waited, thinking of the steep climb to the cave with dismay. Well, if it took him the rest of the night, he just had to get up there.
Before starting off over the rough grass, he looked at the boot of the Buick. He again thought of all that money, alive in his mind, but locked out of sight. There was nothing he could do about that . . . anyway, for the moment. Perhaps after a good sleep and a rest, he would be fit enough to move the money up to the cave.
Walking very slowly, his hand pressed against his chest, Maisky made his way cautiously up to the cave.
* * *
Mish and Chandler reached Maisky's bungalow around four a.m.
The bungalow stood under a group of palm trees within fifty yards of the sea. It was served by a narrow road that went on to a number of small bungalows and cabins, out of sight and some distance away.
As the two men approached the shabby little building, Chandler caught hold of Mish's shoulder, halting him.
'There's a car . . . look . . . to the left.'
In the shadows, Mish could just make out a small car parked to the left of the bungalow. He squinted at it, frowning, then he pulled his gun from his hip pocket.
'That's not Maisky's car . . . it's a sports job.'
'Whose then?'
'Let's go and find out,' Mish said and began a cautious move forward.
'You don't think . . . the cops?' Chandler hung back.
'Not in a sports job . . . it's a T.R.4,' Mish said impatiently.
The two men approached the car, keeping in the shadows. They paused when they were twenty yards or so from it and looked at the bungalow, which was in darkness.
'Maybe he had trouble with the Buick,' Chandler said. 'It's a bad starter. Maybe he used this one if he couldn't get the Buick to start.'
'Yeah . . . that could be it,' Mish said, relaxing. 'I tell you, he's a real smart cookie. Yeah . . . that must be it,' and he walked quickly to the T.R.4 and paused beside it.
The light of the coming dawn was spreading across the sky and the light was sufficient for Mish to see the dark stains on the white leather of the bucket seats. He frowned at them and looked at Chandler who had joined him.
'What's this?'
Mish touched one of the stains with his finger tip, feeling wet stickiness, and then holding his hand up to the growing light, he drew in a sharp breath.
'Judas! It's blood!'
'Maybe he was hit,' Chandler said, uneasily. 'He could be dead in there.'
They moved quickly up the path that led to the front entrance of the bungalow, paused, listened, then Mish, gun in hand, eased open the door and the two men stepped into the stuffy, tiny hall.
'Maisky?' Mish said, raising his voice. 'You there?'
'No . . . I am . . .' Perry said from the living-room. There was no giggle in his voice and it sounded far away. 'Get in here quick!'
