the vault until three in the morning ever again. She would be free to marry Terry. Her whole drab life would be completely changed.
She abruptly decided if this little man was really planning to rob the Casino, she didn’t want to know about it. But she did want another one thousand dollars. She hesitated for perhaps seventy seconds, then she nodded.
But it wasn’t easy. Finally, she did manage to get the blueprint he needed. This was only because she had access to the general office files when she happened to work there during the day for the extra money. This smiling little man had shown his brilliance when he had chosen her to help him. But this man, whose real name was Serge Maisky, was as cunning and as dangerous as a snake. He had come to Paradise City ten months ago. He had watched and inquired discreetly about the four girls who worked in the Casino’s vault. He had finally decided to concentrate on this attractive little blonde whose name was Lana Evans. His selection proved that his instinct and judgement were faultless. Lana Evans was to give him the key to the biggest and most spectacular Casino robbery in the history of all Casino robberies.
So now, here they were, face to face, surrounded by a milling crowd of tourists in the dim-lighted Aquarium that housed, among many fish, performing dolphins. He smiled at her, taking her hand in his dry claw and leading her away from the mob to the comparative quietness of a tank that contained a bored, sad- looking octopus.
“Were you successful?”
His smile was as immaculate as his clothes, but Lana Evans could sense his desperate anxiety, and this anxiety made her frightened.
She nodded.
“Splendid.” His anxiety turned off like the change from red to green of a traffic light. “I have the money… all of it. One thousand beautiful dollars.” The grey eyes swept past her, examining the faces of the tourists near them. “Give it to me.”
“The money first,” Lana Evans said breathlessly. She was very frightened and the dank atmosphere of the cave made her feel faint.
“Of course.” He took a fat envelope from his hip pocket. “It is all here. Don’t count it now, my pretty. People will see you. Where are the blueprints?”
Her fingers closed over the envelope, feeling the crinkling of the bills, out of sight, but now in her grasp. For a brief moment she wondered if he were cheating her, but decided to take the risk. There seemed a lot of money in the envelope. She wanted to get this dangerous transaction finished quickly. She gave him the blueprint, several pages of complicated electrical wiring that covered all the fuse boxes of the Casino’s lighting circuit, the air- conditioning system and the many burglar alarms. He took a very quick look at the pages, half turning, sharing his inspection with the octopus that moved away, taking shelter behind a rock.
“There…” He put her betrayal into his hip pocket. “Now we have completed a very happy transaction.” He smiled, his slate-grey eyes suddenly remote as buttons of dirty snow. “Oh… one more thing…”
“No!” Her voice sharpened. “Nothing more! I don’t care…”
“Please.” He raised his hand, placating, soothing. “I’m not asking for anything more. I am very satisfied. You have been so co-operative, so pleasant to work with, so reliable… may I make my own personal contribution… a modest, trifling gift?” From his pocket, he took a small square packet, neatly tied with red and gold ribbon with a gold label bearing the magic name Diana. “Please accept this… a pretty girl like you should take care of her hands.”
She took the packet, startled by this unexpected kindness. Diana hand cream was created and manufactured only for the very rich. Holding the packet in her hand, she felt even richer than he had made her feel when he had given her the envelope.
“Why… oh, thanks…”
“Thank you, my pretty… goodbye.”
He melted into the crowd like a small, kindly ghost: one moment he was smiling at her, the next he was gone. He disappeared so quickly, it was hard to believe he had ever been standing before her.A large, red-faced man wearing a yellow and blue flowered shirt appeared before her, grinning.
“I’m Thompson from Minneapolis,” he said in a loud, booming voice. “Have you seen those goddam dolphins? Never seen anything like them in my life!”
She stared blankly at him and edged away, then, when she was sure she was out of reach of his hands, she turned and made her way quietly towards the exit, clutching on to the small box of hand cream in which lay her death.
They came to Paradise City, separately, stealthily, like cautious rats coming out into the sunlight.
At this period of the high season, a constant police watch was kept on the airport and the railroad station. There were also police check points outside the City on the three major highways. Police officers with photographic memories waited at the various barriers, their hard, cop eyes staring searchingly at each passenger coming through the check points. Every now and then a hand would be raised and a passenger stopped. He or she would be whisked out of the slowly moving line of passengers and taken aside.
The dialogue was always the same: “Hello, Jack [or Charlie or Lulu]… got a return ticket? Better use it: you’re not wanted here.”
The same form of dialogue was used at the highway check points and cars were manoeuvred out of the queue and sent back towards Miami.
This police surveillance prevented hundreds of big and small criminals from operating in the City, saving the rich from being fleeced.
So the four men who had come in answer to an intriguing summons and who had been warned of the police cordon came separately and with care.
Jess Chandler, because he had no police record, came by air. This tall, handsome, debonair looking man walked without hesitation towards the police barrier, confident that his false passport and his glibly constructed background of a wealthy coffee grower with estates in Brazil would satisfy the police scrutiny.
At the age of thirty-nine, Chandler was now recognised by the underworld as one of the slickest and smartest con men in the racket. He traded on his movie-star appearance. His lean brown face, his short nose and full lips, his high cheekbones and his large, dark eyes gave him a sensual, swashbuckling look of a confident womaniser, and some of the women, looking at him, knew this, feeling a pang of desire as they moved with him in the long queue towards the heat and the sunshine that waited for them outside the airport building.
The two waiting police officers regarded him. Chandler stared back at them, his eyes bored, his expression slightly contemptuous. He showed no fear and fear was what the officers were looking for. After only a brief glance at his passport, they waved him through to the waiting line of taxis.
Chandler hefted his handbag from one hand to the other and grinned. He knew it would be easy… it had been easy.
Mish Collins had to be much more careful. He had only been out of jail for two months and every cop house had his photograph. It had taken him some hours to make up his mind how best he could get past the police cordon without being asked awkward questions. Finally, he had joined a sight-seeing tour that left Miami for a tour of the Everglades and then finally a night at Paradise City, before returning to Miami. In the packed coach, loaded with noisy, happy, slightly drunk tourists, he felt comparatively safe. He had brought his harmonica with him. Ten minutes before reaching the police check point, he had begun to play to the delight of his companions. The instrument, cupped in his huge, fleshy hands, completely shielded his face. He had picked a seat with three other big fleshy men at the back of the coach and the police officer who climbed into the coach merely glanced at him, then concentrated on the other sweating, bovine faces that all grinned back at him.
In this way, Mish Collins arrived safely in Paradise City, a man who the police would have immediately turned back had he been recognised, for Mish Collins was not only one of the top safe blowers in the country, but had also earned a reputation that made many burglar alarm manufacturers quail with apprehension.
Mish Collins was forty-one years of age. He had spent fifteen years of his life in and out of jail. He was massively built, fat, with a lumpy muscular body of great strength. His red hair was beginning to thin and there were lines of hard living, deeply etched on his coarse, rubbery face. His small, restless eyes had a cocky, cheerful light of cunning that somehow made the unwary take to him.
When the bus pulled into the bus station, he drew the Courier aside and told him he wouldn’t be taking the return journey.
