Well Now My Pretty

Tom was now approaching the road block. He saw Patrol Officer Fred O'Toole waving the in-going cars through. He was friendly with O'Toole. They often played pool together in a down-town bar.

O'Toole grinned at him as he waved him through. 'Got a new car, huh?' he called. 'Had a good vacation?'

His white face set in a grin, Tom nodded and waved a sweating hand.

'We should have stopped and told him,' he said as they continued on down the highway.

'Haven't you any guts?' Sheila said impatiently. 'They are certain to offer a big reward. This is our chance, at last, to make some real money!'

'Maybe the money isn't there,' Tom said, but he now began thinking of what the radio announcer had said. Two and a half million dollars! It turned his mouth dry just to think of such a sum.

'The carton's there, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then. Let's get home, and don't drive too fast! We don't want some traffic cop . . .'

'Okay, okay, stop shouting at me! I know what I'm doing!'

'I wish you did. You look like a pregnant duck.'

'Oh, shut up!'

They drove the rest of the way in silence. As they reached Delpont Avenue, Tom slowed. They drove down the long, shabby avenue, lined either side with small cabins and bungalows. The time was now half past nine. It was a good time to arrive. The owners of the cabins and bungalows had already left for work, and it was too early for the wives to go out shopping. But as Tom slowed before his bungalow, he saw Harry Dylan, his nosy next-door neighbour, watering his lawn.

'Our luck!' he muttered under his breath.

Sheila got out of the car to open the double gates that led to their garage.

'Hello there, Mrs. Whiteside,' Dylan shouted and turned off the hose. 'Nice to see you. Did you have a good vacation? My! You certainly have picked up a sun-tan.'

Harty Dylan was short, fat and balding. He had been a bank clerk and had now retired. He was always trying to get friendly with the Whitesides, who found him a bore, Tom suspected that he was infatuated with Sheila as Dylan seldom had anything to say to him when they ran into each other alone.

'Fine, thanks, Mr. Dylan,' Sheila said and ran to open the garage doors.

'I see you have a new car, Mr. Whiteside. That's a much better job than your old one. When did you get that?'

Tom nodded to him and drove into the garage.

Dylan walked along the low fence and when he reached the Whitesides' garage, he leaned over the fence.

'It's not ours,' Sheila said. 'We had a breakdown . . . we had to borrow this to get back home.'

'A breakdown! That's tough. Where did you get to?'

'All over.' Seeing Tom was closing the garage doors, she said hurriedly, 'Excuse me . . . we have to unpack,' and she stepped back as Tom closed the second door.

'That guy!' he said angrily.

'Come on. Open up. Let's look.'

Tom unlocked the boot and lifted the hood. He took out the gas cooker and set it on the floor. Sheila leaned into the boot and caught hold of the carton. She tried to drag it towards her, but found it was too heavy to move. She spun around.

'The money's in there! I can't move it!'

Tom began to shake.

'We could get into a load of trouble . . .'

'Oh, stop it! Help me!'

He joined her, and together they dragged the carton forward. As she began opening it, there came a knocking on the garage door.

They froze, looking at each other. Then feverishly, they shoved the carton back and closed the lid of the boot.

'Who is it?' Sheila asked breathlessly.

They walked slowly to the double doors and opened one of them. Dylan had come around the fence and grinned cheerfully at him.

'I don't want to disturb you, Mr. Whiteside, but while you were away the gas and electricity men called. I thought it neighbourly to pay the bills. Then there was a guy who said Mrs. Whiteside had ordered some cosmetics. I took in the parcel. Like to settle up now?'

Tom controlled himself with an effort. His smile was a grimace.

'We'll unpack first. . . thanks a lot. Suppose I come around when we've settled in?'

'Sure and bring your wife. Let's say in a couple of hours, huh? I'll open a bottle of Scotch someone gave me . . . it's damn fine Scotch if one can judge by its label. Like me to help you unpack? I'm pretty good at carrying things.'