himself. 'Well, how about a drink, Mrs. Whiteside?'
'Why not?'
She got glasses, charge water and ice. All the time she moved around, she was aware of his eyes on her body. Well, let him look, the poor dumb fish, she thought. It's not costing me anything.
'You heard about the Casino robbery?' he asked, measuring out two big drinks. 'Quite something. Two and a half million dollars! It's my bet they will never see that again!'
She sat down, deliberately careless with her skirt. She let him see the colour of her panties before she adjusted her skirt. He slopped some of the drink.
'Yes, I heard about it on the radio. What would you do with all that money, Mr. Dylan?'
'I wouldn't know . . . honestly. They say one man's got it now. I've worked in a bank for years, Mrs. Whiteside. I do know something about the value of money. Let me tell you . . . that's too much money. The average person wouldn't know what to do with it.'
She had to make an effort not to show her contempt. 'Oh, I don't know. Money goes fast.'
'But not as much money as that. It would be an embarrassment. And besides, it is all in $500 bills. Now, a bill that size creates suspicion. When I was at the bank and someone wanted to change a $500 bill, I always checked. Just imagine being landed with all those bills.'
Sheila stared thoughtfully at her glass. She hadn't thought of this.
'Surely people do have $500 bills?'
'Of course, but not many of them. And the banks will now be watching for them.' They sipped their drinks while his eyes ran over her legs. 'So you had a good vacation?'
She didn't hear him. She was thinking . . . wondering whether a fat old fool like him knew what he was talking about. He probably didn't. After all, the rich gamblers at the Casino used $500 bills as she used lipstick.
'Mrs. Whiteside . . . you're day dreaming,' Dylan said and laughed. 'So far away . . . did you have a good vacation? Did you really enjoy it?'
Oh, God! Not that again! She was suddenly utterly bored with him. She had hoped maybe he would help pass the time, but his obvious lust, his peeping eyes and his fat, sweating face now sickened her.
'Yes . . . fine.' She finished her drink and stood up. 'Well . . . sorry to push you out, but I have unpacking to do. Tom will settle up some time this evening. Thanks for the drink.'
She got rid of him before he realised he was being bustled out. She watched him through the window as he walked away, looking lonely and depressed.
She grimaced.
Men! she thought.
Eight
AT TWENTY minutes past midnight, Tom, who had been looking at his watch continuously for the past half hour, stood up.
'We can do it now,' he said. 'I'm not waiting any longer.'
'Better go out and see if any lights are showing,' Sheila said, but she too was anxious to get the money buried.
'I know . . . I know . . . you don't have to tell me!'
Tom went into the kitchen, turned off the light, opened the back door and walked into the garden.
It was a hot night, and there was a big moon like a dead man's face, casting a hard white light over the garden. He walked slowly down the garden path until he came to the bottom fence, then he turned and looked at the bungalows either side of his. They were all in darkness. He then hurried back as Sheila joined him.
'All right?'
'Yes . . . I'll get the spade. You go down to the fence and watch.'
She nodded and moved past him.
The digging was harder than he imagined. They had left the flower bed empty, not bothering to plant it up, and the ground had turned hard.
Sheila kept coming up the path, asking if he wasn't finished, for God's sake. He snarled at her. Both of them were jumpy and their nerves were frayed.
Finally, he stepped out of the hole and peered down at it. It should be deep enough, he thought.
Seeing him get out of the hole, Sheila joined him.
'An hour and a half to dig a little hole!' she said scornfully. 'What kind of man are you?'
'Oh, shut up!' Tom snapped. 'The ground's like concrete. Come on. . . let's get the box.'
They went into the bedroom where the carton was already wrapped in a big plastic sheet Tom had found in the loft. It was roped and ready to be buried. They dragged it out and dropped it into the hole.
'Go back and watch!' Tom said as he picked up the spade. Twenty minutes later, they were back in their sitting-room. Tom poured himself a big shot of whisky. He was dirty, sweating and very jumpy.
'We're crazy to do this,' he said, after a gulp at the whisky. 'We'll never spend all that money! Why can't we
