‘Put the bag down, turn around and get your hands up!’ he snapped.
‘Now listen.’ Edris began, forcing a wheedling smile to his ashen face.
‘Do it pig face!’ Jess yelled at him, threatening him with the gun.
Edris caught his breath in a sob. He dropped the bag, turned and as he began to raise his hands, Jess took a quick step forward and slammed the gun barrel down on his head.
It did Lepski a power of good to watch Terrell’s face as he told his story. Beigler, leaning against the wall, behind Terrell’s desk, was also good to look at.
Lepski couldn’t restrain his grin of triumph as he concluded, ‘And here’s a photograph of Norena Devon, Chief. I got it from her school,’ and with a flourish, he laid the photograph on Terrell’s desk.
Both Terrell and Beigler leaned forward and peered at the group of girls shown in the photograph.
‘She’s the second on the left, back row,’ Lepski said.
‘Nice work, Tom,’ Terrell said after staring at the plain looking girl who wore spectacles. ‘So who’s this girl Devon imagines is his daughter?’
‘Ira Marsh. Muriel’s sister,’ Beigler put in. ‘I’ve just got the New York police report. Ira Marsh left New York on the night of the 16th. She hasn’t been seen since. It jells, Chief.’
‘But why?’ Terrell stared at Beigler, frowning. ‘We’re missing out on something big here. Why did Algir substitute Ira for Norena? He must have had a reason.’
‘She’ll tell us. Let’s pick her up.’
‘We won’t rush it,’ Terrell said. ‘I’ll talk to Devon first.’ He frowned. ‘This dwarf Edris, he must have planted her photo in Muriel’s bedroom. He was the one who sold Algir to Dr. Graham. Get after him, Joe! Get after him fast!’
‘He’s supposed to be in New York,’ Beigler said.
‘Alert the New York police. It may be a bluff. He may still be here. Try his home, Joe.’
Beigler nodded and hurried from the room.
‘Get the airport covered and road blocks set up, Tom,’ Terrell went on. ‘Looking the way he does, he can’t get far, but I’m not taking chances with that little snake.’ He got to his feet and picked up the photograph from his desk.
‘I’ll see Devon.’
Lepski reached for the telephone.
‘If you don’t get promotion for this, old son, old son,’ he said to himself, ‘you’ll never get it.’
Jess rode down in the elevator. He hadn’t waited to count the money he had taken from Edris’ unconscious body, but he knew it was more money than he had expected to find. He must get out of Florida fast, he told himself. He would leave the rented car at Fernandia and take the train to Atlanta. He would stay there until he knew which way the cat was jumping. With all that money, he hadn’t a care in the world.
In spite of his elation he was still shocked by Algir’s death. It was obvious that Edris who he had left sprawled on the floor, unconscious, had murdered him. As he got into the Ford, he wondered what Edris would do and where he would go.
Serve the little freak right! Jess thought as he trod on the starter. This squared it for the way he had treated Ira.
What about Ira? Jess frowned. He was half tempted to try to find her. It would be more fun travelling with her than alone. Then he shook his head. Better not. It wouldn’t be long before the cops got wise to her and then he’d land in real trouble along with her. No, he’d travel alone. There would be time to find a girl when he reached Atlanta.
He drove towards Miami. The midday traffic was heavy and the way out of Seacombe was irritatingly slow.
But Jess confined his impatience. It was a sweet set up, he thought, slowing as the traffic built up to yet another jam. Edris wouldn’t dare squeal. Algir was dead. Ira didn’t know he had the money. It was sweet! Talk about the perfect steal!
The traffic ahead speeded up and Jess changed from second to third. Ahead of him he saw the traffic lights. He wondered if he could beat them. The car ahead of him suddenly surged forward, leaving him behind. Jess couldn’t resist shoving down on the gas pedal. As he did so the lights five yards ahead turned red.
Cursing, he slammed on his brakes and skidded to a standstill, a yard over the line. Then before he could reverse, he was thrown forward with a sickening shock as a car behind him crashed into the back of the Ford.
Jess turned in his seat, snarling with fury. He could see the driver, a fat, elderly man getting out of his car. Then he heard the sound he most dreaded — the sound of a police whistle.
His heart suddenly hammering he snatched the automatic from his hip pocket with the intention of hiding it in the glove compartment when a hard, cop voice bawled, ‘Hold it!’
He looked up. A big red-faced policeman was staring at him through the off-side window. He had come up without Jess seeing him. The cop already had his gun in his hand and he was pointing it at Jess.
‘Put that gun down!’ The cop said, steel in his voice. ‘Quick!’
Half blubbering with fear and rage, Jess let the gun drop on the car seat and he held up his hands. His door jerked open and another cop grabbed him and hauled him into the street. Car horns were sounding.
People were pausing and staring.
‘Watch him,’ the other cop bawled. ‘He’s just ditched a rod!’
The red-faced cop grinned and slapped Jess across the face, sending him staggering. Then he reached out arid before Jess knew what was happening, handcuffs were pinching his wrists.
He felt the packet of money he had stuffed inside his shirt shift and before he could stop it, the money began to spill out onto the road.
‘Hey, what do you know?’ The red-faced cop exclaimed, his eyes opening wide. ‘This punk is bleeding dough!’
Ticky Edris opened his eyes. The pain in his head was so bad he let out a low, whinnying moan. He lay still, trying to remember what had happened, then he remembered.
It took him several long painful minutes to sit up. He held his aching head between his stumpy hands until his head began to clear and the sharp gnawing pain subside.
He pushed himself to his knees and then up onto his feet. He took two staggering steps forward. His left shoe squelched in the drying pool of blood from Algir’s wound and he shuddered, trying to wipe his shoe clean on the carpet. He moved on as if fifty years had been put on his life during the half hour he had been unconscious. He reached the cocktail cabinet, opened it with an unsteady hand and grabbed the bottle of whisky. He took out the cork, letting it drop on the carpet and raised the bottle to his lips. He drank long and steadily, feeling the spirit fan through his body, giving him back warmth and life.
Gasping, he set the bottle down and patted his hip pocket. He knew it was a useless gesture. The money was gone.
He walked unsteadily into the bathroom and bathed his head and face. His mind was too numbed to work. He stood looking at himself in the mirror and he felt his heart shrink at the sight of himself. He looked like a little wizened old man moving to his death. He looked as if he could die in a very few hours.
He turned away and returned to the living room. He picked up the whisky bottle and took another long drink. He belched as he sat down in his miniature armchair and put his feet up on the foot stool.
There would be no boat now to Mexico, he thought.
Without money, Ticky, old buddy-boy, you’re sunk. May as well face it. No good running away. No good making any more plans. You’re in the deep, deep hole and you’ll never get out of it.
He looked over at Algir and his lips came off his teeth in a snarl of hate. Just because that dead lump of nothingness, that flash dumb sonofabitch was too stupid and too lazy to have buried a body deep enough. Just that — only that to foul up the sweetest set up for the Big Take ever dreamed up.