Well Now My Pretty

'Well, okay, okay.' He got into the Buick and started the engine.

Maisky tried to aim his gun at him, but in his weak, shaking hand, the gun barrel danced as if it were alive. He cursed as he lowered the gun. With murderous rage and sick frustration, he watched Tom back the Buick, turn it and then drive out of the glade.

Reaching his car, Tom pulled up. Both he and Sheila transferred all their clothes and the camping equipment on to the back seat of the

Buick. They were then left with the gas cooker which wouldn't fit into the back of the car.

'Put it in the boot,' Sheila said impatiently. She got in the passenger's seat of the buick and lit a cigarette.

Tom unlocked the boot and opened it. In the boot was a big cardboard carton with the initials I.B.M. painted in black letters on its side. He wondered vaguely what it contained, but as Sheila called to him to hurry up, for God's sake, he put the cooker against the carton and slammed down the lid.

He got in the car and drove down the five-mile-long dirt road until they reached the Paradise City highway.

Sheila was relaxed now, her arm on the window frame of the car. This was the first time in months that she had been in a car that didn't rattle and showed signs of power.

'Why don't you get a better car?' she asked suddenly. 'You work for these jerks. Why can't they give you something better than our stinking ruin?'

'Just rest your mouth,' Tom said. 'If I have anything more from you, I'll go screwy.'

'Screwy? Who said you aren't already screwy?'

'Oh, will you shut up!' Tom leaned forward and snapped on the radio. Anything to keep her quiet.

A voice was saying: '. . . the Casino robbery the night before last. Four of the wanted men are now accounted for, but the fifth, believed to be the ringleader, is still at large. The police are anxious to question Serg Maisky, alias Franklin Ludovick, who they think may help them with their inquiries. The description of the wanted man is as follows: age sixty-five, slimly built, height five foot seven inches, thin, sandy-coloured hair, grey eyes. He is thought to be driving a Buick coupe. The police believe he is in possession of a large cardboard carton with the initials I.B.M. painted on its sides. This carton may contain the two and a half million dollars taken from the Casino. Anyone seeing this man is asked to notify the police immediately. Paradise City 7777.'

The Buick swerved and a driver, overtaking, blasted his horn and cursed Tom as he stormed past.

'What are you doing?' Sheila demanded. 'You could have had a smash,' then seeing his white face, she asked sharply, 'What's the matter?'

'Shut up!' Tom snapped, trying to control himself. He slowed the car, feeling cold sweat on his face. Had he heard aright? He thought of the big carton in the boot. He saw, again the initials I.B.M. painted on the box. Two and a half million dollars!

'You look as if you've swallowed a bee,' Sheila said, now worried. 'What is it?'

He drew in a long, slow breath.

'Turn the radio off!'

She shrugged impatiently and snapped off the radio.

'What's biting you?'

'I think this car belongs to the Casino robbers,' Tom said, his voice strangled. 'The money is in the boot!'

Sheila stiffened, staring at him.

'Have you gone crazy?'

'There's a carton in the boot with painted on it!'

Her eyes grew round.

'This could explain why the car was hidden,' Tom went on. 'What the hell are we going to do?'

'Are you sure about the carton?'

'Of course, I'm sure . . . do you think I'm blind?'

A feverish excitement took hold of Sheila. She remembered what the announcer had said: This carton may contain the two and a half million dollars taken from the Casino.

'We'll go straight home and make sure,' she said.

'We'd better go to police headquarters.'

'We are going home!' Her voice now was hard and shrill. 'If the money is really in the boot, we're not handing it over to the police! There'll be a reward . . .'

Tom began to protest, then he saw the traffic was slowing down.

'What's going on?' he said, braking and staring at the long line of cars coming to a halt.

Sheila leaned out of the window.

'There's a road block ahead. The in-going traffic is being waved through. They are only checking the outgoing traffic.' Tom drew in a long, unsteady breath.

'We'd better tell them.'

'Oh, quiet down! We are going home and we are going to make certain first the money is there!'