there, beating in his ears, dull rhythmic thuds, but he knew he was out of earshot.
The flashlight was now in Harry's mouth. He swung powerfully at a bolt on an iron sidearm, which was set in concrete. The other side of the wall, by the safe, was in shambles with the sidearm sprung loose from the concrete. With a final blow from the sledge, the bolt parted and Harry used the crow-bar to loosen the safe.
Bracing one leg against the wall beneath, he gave an inhuman yank on the supporting strips. The safe moved forward about five inches.
Harry looked as if he had been down in a coal pit for days. Covered with sweaty grime, his face was twisted into a frightful mask. He heaved against the safe again; it came out a trifle more. It was so heavy every muscle in his body swelled until he thought he would rip apart.
But soon the safe plunged to the carpeted floor with a smashing sound.
Harry fell to the floor beside it. Gasping, he got to his feet and with monumental effort and slowly lifted the safe onto a heavy wooden chair. Kneeling, his back to the chair, he took one of the side-arms in each hand and tilted the chair forward. It rested heavily against his back.
Staggering to his feet, though bent double, he struggled toward the door. He left the flashlight burning on the floor, shining on all his evil tools. He made his way slowly down the long hall.
When he finally reached the entry window with the taped diagonals, he allowed himself to slump against the sill. Sick and breathless, he rested for a second, his half-closed eyes taking in the gardener's cottage, the same light glittering forth. He coughed and gagged, and in a flash he raised the safe to the window sill and sent it tumbling to the lawn. He jumped out after it.
He held the safe against his groin and knees and staggered like a hunchback across the lawn. When he neared the cottage, he moved to the left of the fieldstone path, passing onto the left lawn which was bathed in a flood of light. Clearly silhouetted in the moonlight, he progressed toward the wooden gate. The safe brushed the ground. He halted by the gate and let it drop, collapsing against the stone portal.
Harry leaned his head against the cool stone wall. It did not ease his pain. His eyes were closed and his breath came in gasps, like an asthmatic's. His head ached. But soon we'll live happily ever after …
as long as that gardener stays fast asleep…
He reached into his coat pocket and extracted the small sledge hammer. Pushing himself away from the wall with his left hand, he raised the sledge and with one tremendous blow, smashed the cast iron lock and handle. The noise shattered the silence and the heavy door swung creakily open.
He glanced behind himself for an instant. That fucking light in the gardener's cottage never burns out, he thought.
Harry lifted the safe to his knees and propelled himself to the sidewalk. Phillip was at the wheel, the rear door of the car open and welcoming. In three steps Harry had the safe to the car. He dumped it in with a heave and collapsed on top of it saying, 'OK Daddy, drive…'
He fell unconscious.
CHAPTER IX
Phillip sat leisurely smoking his cigar and reading the papers on a park bench in the vicinity of the sea-lions at the Central Park Zoo.
Elegantly dressed, he ate a bag of peanuts. It had been so long since he had sat in the sun, he enjoyed it. His
'Fingers' Suspected in Both.
He smiled wryly to himself as he read the article over again. 'But they'll never know,' he said softly to himself.
Phillip strolled toward Central Park West. Breathing deeply and vigorously, he passed the children's carousel, teeming with tots, some attended by their nurses, others with their mothers taking an hour off before cooking dinner, still others with an older brother or sister to protect them from kidnappers.
'Shabbiness,' Phillip thought, 'the one thing to be avoided.'
Apparently everyone else felt the same way these days. No more being content with modest living. But what was everyone doing with his money?
At least Phillip knew what to do with his money. He had taste and a genuine feeling for art, something few people, wealthy or not, had any more. Yes, he was a superior person, he thought, not snobbishly but factually. It was time to sit back and enjoy his good taste. He wasn't a glutton; he knew when to stop and not begin again. Control, that's what it was. Control was the key to his success.
He threw his shoulders back a bit further, inhaled deeply and came out on the other side of the park. Tonight would be a good time for a sort of celebration, he thought. I'll prepare a perfect dish of squab, sweet crisp, brown little squab, buttered and basted with sherry, exactly the way I like it. Haven't eaten that in a while, seasoned as only I know how … wild rice and nicely chilled Chablis. Then I'll break the news.
Phillip walked quickly into a delicacy food shop.
He arrived at the apartment, trailed by a delivery boy carrying a large brimming cardboard carton. He found Harry standing in the foyer, staring into space, smoking in his usual unconscious manner. Harry looked up surprised. 'What's all this?'
Phillip beckoned him into the kitchen. 'I want to fix a specialty of mine this evening. Every once in a while when I'm especially relaxed, I like to be a chef, and I must say I do it very well.'
Harry raised his eyebrows in affirmation. He looked well today, almost back to normal. He had been forced to rest since the Boston job.
He had overexerted himself. Phillip knew this and was pleased tonight to see the change. Harry looked as handsome as ever in his tight fitting khakis and black cashmere sweater. Phillip tipped the boy, put some of the groceries away, and followed Harry into the living room. 'Did you see the papers?'
Harry was busy mixing a drink. 'Yeah, Carol brought them over this afternoon.'
'Carol was here this afternoon?' Phillip questioned casually. Harry smiled and said flippantly, 'We had a little game of chess. She says you taught her everything she knows.'
'I have taught her a few things.' Phillip made his words oddly precise.
'You're quite a teacher.'
Phillip smiled ruefully, 'That was the plan, wasn't it?'
Harry shrugged his shoulders disinterestedly.
But Phillip continued, 'As far as we're concerned, it doesn't seem to be working out that way, does it?'
Harry looked at Phillip over the top of his glass. 'Go ahead, I'm listening.'
'Did you ever really listen, Harry?'
Harry, taken aback at the serious note in Phillip's voice, laughed.
'Still think I'm too ambitious?'
'Ambitious.' Phillip repeated the word cynically. He studied Harry for a moment, as though he were looking at a stranger. 'Let me put it this way, Harry. There are those who are not so ambitious and live very satisfactory lives.'
Harry crossed the room and sat down on one of the Empire divans.
Aware of Phillip's seriousness, this time he spoke pensively. 'People write books, Phillip, and people read them. Those books are usually about guys like me. I don't say this with conceit. Action belongs to me the way big tits belong to some women. The way I see it, the world is a million and one things to get hooked on. I have to do what I have to do. As you would put it, Phillip, it's a matter of taste.'
Phillip listened attentively while he mixed a bourbon and water.
'The difference between you and me, Mr. Johns, is that you're a white-collar man, and I like to work.' Harry said this less intensely, trying to keep the conversation from becoming too personal, too revealing.
'So, what does it all mean?' Phillip asked gently.
'It means that we've warmed up, we've had our breather, and now it's time to make something really big.'
Phillip waited a few moments and then asked matter-of-factly, 'How do you know the Llewellyns are down
