'One of those things, boy, but at least, we are in one piece.' He looked at the unconscious Perry. 'Not like him.'
Chandler looked coldly at the wounded man.
'Who cares?' He dragged open his shirt collar. 'If I don't have a cup of coffee, I'll blow my stack.'
'Go ahead and blow it. There's not a damn thing left . . . no food . . . nothing except that whisky. You got any cigarettes?'
'Used my last one.' Chandler stared at Mish. 'We can't live here without food.'
'We show ourselves on the street and we're cooked. We have to stay under cover.' Mish thought for a moment, then asked, 'Have you any friends here?'
'What do you mean?'
'Someone who would bring us supplies without asking questions?'
Chandler then remembered Lolita. Would she do it? Had she heard the radio description of him and if he contacted her would she give him away to the police? He decided he could trust her. She had been in cop trouble herself . . . nothing bad, but the cops were always shoving her around, stopping her entering the better restaurants, leaning their weight on her.
'You might have an idea,' he said. 'There is a girl . . . maybe she would do it. Is the phone working?'
'I don't know . . . should be.'
Chandler went over the telephone, lifted the receiver and listened to the reassuring dialling tone. He concentrated for a few seconds, trying to remember the telephone number she had given him. Was it Paradise City 9911 or 1199? He decided it was the latter number. He was very good at memorising his girlfriends' telephone numbers. He dialled the number and waited. There was a long pause, then Lolita said sleepily, 'Yes?'
Chandler nodded to Mish, then in his most persuasive manner, charm oozing out of his deep baritone voice, he began to talk.
Five
BY MIDDAY, Chief of Police Terrell had an almost complete picture of the Casino robbery.
Reports, telephone calls, Telex communications between Headquarters and the F.B.I. had swiftly built up a picture of the method of the robbery and a description of the men involved. A set of fingerprints had been found on the tool box left in the Casino's control room. Back came a report from Washington with Mish Collins' photograph and record. Another set of fingerprints found on the glass box at the vault's entrance identified Jack Perry, known as a vicious Mafia killer. They had Jess Chandler's description from Sid Regan, but so far had failed to turn up his record.
Terrell pushed aside the heap of reports and reached for the carton of coffee.
'Time off, Joe,' he said and poured the coffee into two paper cups. Thankfully, Beigler reached for one of them and lit yet another cigarette. He had been working non-stop since the robbery and he was feeling bushed.
'Well, we are coming along,' Terrell said after a thoughtful sip from his paper cup. 'We know four of the men . . . one dead, but there's the fifth. It's a funny thing, Joe, but no one seems to have seen him. We have a good description of the other four, but not the fifth man. I'm willing to bet a buck, he is the man who planned the robbery. We do know he was driving the truck, but no one noticed him at the wheel. When trouble started, he took off. What I'm wondering is . . . did he rat on the others or was it agreed that if trouble started, the other men should look after themselves and he should look after the money? Lewis tells me there are two and a half million dollars missing. That's a lot of scratch. He could have been tempted to make off with it, and ditch the others.'
Beigler nodded.
'Where does that get us?' he asked, not unreasonably.
'It's a thought.' Terrell finished his coffee, hesitated whether to refill his cup, decided not to and picked up another report. 'If he has ratted on the others and we catch any of them, they could talk. I want to find No. 5 very badly.'
'We haven't caught any of them yet . . .' The telephone bell rang and Beigler grimaced. 'Here we go again.' He scooped up the receiver. He listened for several moments, his face hardening, then he said, 'Okay, Mr. Marcus . . . sure, I understand. I'll be right over. Yeah . . . I know where you are.' He scribbled on a pad, then he repeated, 'I'll be right over,' and hung up. He looked at Terrell who was looking at him. 'That was Sam Marcus. He runs a Self-service store . . .'
'I know him,' Terrell said impatiently. 'What about him?'
'His daughter, Jackie, was on the beach last night with a party. They were in a hurry to get home, but as Mr. and Mrs. Marcus were away for the night, Jackie stayed on for a last swim. As she was getting into her car . . .' Terrell listened as Beigler talked, then Beigler concluded, 'Here's the pay-off. This man was fat, elderly, whitehaired. He was wearing khaki trousers and he had a gun. It looks like Jack Perry. After the creep had raped her, she got his gun and plugged him in the belly. She ran off and he took her T.R.4 . . . but he is wounded. Like it, Chief?'
Terrell's face turned grim.
'Where's the girl?'
'Marcus found her when they came home this morning. She was in shock. The doctor's there now. As soon as she could tell the story, Marcus telephoned.'
'Okay, Joe, get over there. Make certain the girl isn't romancing. Perry's description has been on the air. One of her boyfriends might have laid her and she is blaming Perry. Check her story out.'
Beigler got to his feet and left the office.
