‘Yeah,’ Baird said. ‘Hater will be where you can get to him?’
‘He’s working on my shift. I won’t make a move until the smoke starts. Then I’l grab him as if I thought he was trying to escape. As soon as the smoke gets thick I’l rush him to you. You’l have to handle him after that.’
‘If he gets tough, clip him and carry him. Think you can do it?’
Noddy grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
‘For five grand I could push over the Woolworth building,’ he said. ‘I’l get him to you if I have to take him on my back.’
‘Right,’ Baird said. ‘I guess I owe you some dough.’
Noddy’s eyes glistened.
‘That was the arrangement.’
‘Give him twenty-five Cs,’ Baird said to Rico. ‘You’l get the rest tomorrow.’
Reluctantly, Rico went to his suitcase, opened it and counted out the money. He handed it to Noddy, who checked it, his breath whistling through his nostrils with suppressed excitement.
‘Gee! I’ve never seen so much dough al in one heap,’ he said, stuffing the money in his hip pocket.
He patted the bulge, grinning. ‘There lies half a turkey farm.’
Baird lit a cigarette. He held the flame of the match so it lit up his face. His eyes were like stones, and his expression menacing.
‘Maybe I’d better warn you not to try any tricks with me,’ he said softly. ‘Make sure you pul this job off or you won’t be interested in even half a turkey farm.’
Noddy flinched from the implied threat, but he managed an uneasy laugh.
‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘You can rely on me. You’l have Hater by tomorrow morning.’
When he had gone, Rico said uneasily, ‘I don’t trust that guy.’
Baird was settling down for the night. He pulled a blanket over him as he glanced up to stare at Rico.
‘What makes you think I do?’ he said curtly, and turned out the lamp.
II
From his lofty perch in the oak tree, Baird had a clear view of the large dipper dredge, operating a steam shovel that deposited its load in a waiting truck, parked on the concrete path constructed along the bank. Fifty yards farther upstream was a hydraulic dredge, driven by a diesel engine, that was removing the far side grass bank, widening the river.
Baird sat astride a thick branch, his back braced against the trunk, some thirty feet above ground.
Across his knees lay a .22 Winchester repeater, fitted with a telescopic sight and silencer. He was wearing a loose jacket and trousers of green and yellow camouflage: the kind of kit the U.S. Army issued for jungle fighting. He had smeared burnt cork over his face. No one looking up at the tree, even with the aid of field-glasses, could spot him.
Below him, also astride a branch and similarly dressed, Rico sat and sweated. Slung over his shoulder was a canvas sack which contained a dozen smoke bombs Baird had given him.
They could see the convicts working in the blazing sunshine, manhandling the mud as it poured from the steam shovel into the trucks; sweat poured off them as they toiled. They worked stripped to the waist; old, battered straw hats shielded their shaven heads from the sun.
Baird surveyed the scene through a powerful pair of glasses. Up to now he had counted three guards, and was trying to locate the other two. Two of the guards were on the bridge house of the dipper dredge.
One of them had an automatic rifle under his arm; the other appeared to have only a pistol at his hip. The third guard walked slowly up and down on the narrow deck of the hydraulic dredge. He was armed with an automatic rifle and a .45 Smith and Wesson.
Baird shifted his glasses to a building made of logs and thatched with saw-grass that stood in a clearing away from the bank. He spotted another guard sitting in the shade, astride a Browning machine-gun, covering the road that led out of the swamp.
The machine-gun startled Baird. Noddy hadn’t said anything about a machine-gun.
‘Take a look at that guy in front of the hut,’ he said in a low voice to Rico. ‘He’s the one I’ve got to take care of.’
Rico raised his glasses and nearly dropped them when he saw the Browning.
‘He goes first,’ Baird went on. ‘There should be one more guard, but I can’t spot him. What’s the time?’
‘Six minutes to twelve,’ Rico said, through dry lips.
Baird grunted. He began to search the bush with his glasses, but he couldn’t spot the fifth guard.
‘Maybe he’s in the hut or somewhere with the dogs,’ he said, slipping the glasses into their case. He raised the Winchester and squinted through the telescopic sight. ‘I wish I’d had a little more practice with this gun,’ he muttered under his breath. He cradled the barrel in a fork of a branch. After shifting the gun a little he got the guard’s head in the exact centre of the cross-piece in the sight. He grunted, satisfied, and lowered the gun. ‘Seen Noddy?’
‘He’s by the truck with the red disc on it,’ Rico said, looking through his glasses. ‘That must be Hater near him.’
Baird took his glasses from the case and focused them on the truck. He spotted Noddy, standing by the truck, a cigarette in his mouth. His battered panama hat shielded his face, but Baird recognised him by his pigeon chest and tall, stooping figure.
Hater was shovelling liquid mud off the steam shovel into the truck. He was standing up to his knees in the heavy wet muck, and Baird recognised him immediately by his balding head and beetling eyebrows. He was the only convict in the gang who was bareheaded. He worked slowly and listlessly, stripped to the waist, his emaciated body burned brown by the sun.
‘That’s Hater,’ Baird said, nodding. ‘You’d better get down now and take up your position. Lob the first bomb on to the deck of the big dredge. Make sure every bomb you throw falls on something hard.
They won’t go off if they hit mud.’
Rico muttered something. Sweat ran into his eyes, making them smart. He was trembling so badly he was afraid to let go of the branch he was clinging to.
‘Make a job of it,’ Baird went on, watching him. ‘If you throw them high in the air, they won’t spot where they’re coming from.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Get going. We’ve got half a minute to twelve.’
Rico began to climb down the tree. His breath was laboured, and once or twice he had to stop while he tried to control his trembling. Baird watched him, his face set.
‘Get on with it!’ he snarled. ‘What are you scared about? Nothing’s going to happen to you.’
Rico finally reached the ground. He leaned against the tree trunk, his legs buckling under him, then he made an effort, and began to move forward, completely screened by the tall saw-grass.
From his perch Baird could watch his progress through the bush, but the guard on the bridge of the dredge was not in a high enough position to see him. From time to time Rico stopped and looked up at Baird to get his direction. Baird waved him on, and he turned and continued through the saw-grass, stumbling over the swampy ground until he was within thirty yards of the big dredge. Baird signalled him to slow down. He focused his glasses on Rico’s face.
‘The little rat’s nearly dead with fright,’ he mut ered to himself. ‘If he fal s down on this, we’re all sunk.’
Rico again looked over his shoulder. Baird made a signal telling him to go on more slowly still.
Another ten yards brought Rico to the edge of the saw-grass. He could see the bridge of the dredge now, and he hurriedly ducked back, dropping on one knee.
He and Baird had rehearsed what he had to do again and again during the morning. He had to remain just out of sight until Baird gave him the signal to throw the bombs. He opened the canvas sack and took out one of the bombs. It immediately became slippery in his sweating hands and he put it back and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.