Keeping his face dead pan, his eyes slightly surprised, Chandler said, "Emergency, pal. We've just changed the calculator in the vault." He was a little uneasy to hear his voice sounded so husky. "Mr.
Lewis's orders." He slammed the other door of the truck. "My luck! What a time to have an emergency."
"Hold it!" O'Brien snapped. "Open up. I want to look in the truck."
Chandler stared fixedly at him.
"Know something, pal? I want to get home. But okay, take a look," and he opened one of the truck doors.
O'Brien peered in the dark truck.
"What's in that box?"
"The calculator . . . the one that's broken down," Chandler said, now aware that he beginning to sweat.
"You got a pass-out?" O'Brien asked.
"Why, sure . . . old man river gave it to us," Chandler said and jerked his thumb towards the glass box where Regan was watching what was going on.
"I want to see what's inside that box," O'Brien said. "Open it up."
Perry, listening, eased out his Colt .38. To the short barrel there was screwed a four-inch silencer.
Chandler felt sick. This was about to become the moment of violence he had been dreading, but without hesitation, he pulled the carton towards the end of the truck.
O'Brien moved forward. His broad back was turned to Perry. Wash, watching, felt his heart constrict. This fool! he was thinking. This conscientious fool! If he could only let the truck go!
Listening to all this, Maisky put the clutch out and gently moved into gear.
Perry lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger as O'Brien reached forward to open the carton.
The .38 slug smashed through O'Brien's rib cage and cut his heart in two. The sound of the gun was no more than the sharp clap of hands.
O'Brien fell forward as Maisky released the clutch and sent the truck shooting forward.
For a brief moment Perry remained motionless . . . a wisp of smoke drifting from his silencer, then he jerked up the gun and fired once more. The slug smashed through the door of the truck that had swung shut as the truck shot forward.
For a paralysed moment, Sid Regan watched his old friend O'Brien as he fell, then with a reaction astonishing for a man of his age, his hand slid under the desk to where a .45 revolver had lain, gathering the rust, for several years; a gun O'Brien had given him and which Regan had treated as a joke. His horny fingers found the trigger, hooked around it and pulled with violence. The gun in the confined space went off with a nerve-shattering bang, the bullet ploughing through the wooden partition of Regan's box and whistling past Chandler so close that he felt the wind of it against his face.
As Regan fired, he rolled off his stool and out of sight behind the wooden partition.
Perry swivelled around, lifting his gun, but Chandler's tense voice halted his murderous impulse.
"Get out! Quick!" Chandler cried and, turning, he ran up the alley.
Realising in seconds he would have a mass of guards converging on the entrance to the vault, Perry followed him.
Wash, shaking with shock, moved out of the shadows and bent over O'Brien. His first thought was to see if he could help the murdered man. He turned him over. The light from the doorway fell directly on O'Brien's dead face and, shuddering, Wash straightened. This was no one he could help. He looked to right and left, hesitating. His legs were shaky. There seemed no other way of escape except up the narrow, orange-tree-lined alley. As he stared up it, Tom Lepski, gun in hand, came swiftly down. Wash stopped, hesitated, unaware he held his gun in his hand, then in a moment of panic, he plunged towards Lepski.
Lepski's gun banged once and Wash was thrown backwards. He felt a burning sensation in his chest then the stars and the big floating moon dimmed into slow, empty darkness.
* * *
Sergeant Joe Beigler suppressed a yawn, then reached for a carton of coffee that stood on his desk. He poured coffee into a paper cup, then lit a cigarette. He looked around the dimly lit Detectives' room. The only other officer on duty was Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby who was crouched over a desk, reading a book.
"What the hell are you reading?" Beigler asked. He never read anything and resented those who did.
Jacoby, the keenest officer in the City's police force, young, Jewish and good looking, glanced up.
"Assimil . . ."
Beigler blinked at him.
"Assy . . . who?"
Patiently, Jacoby explained. "It's a French course. I'm trying to learn French, Sergeant."
"French?" Beigler sat back, astounded. "What the hell for?"
"Why do you learn anything?" Jacoby asked.
Beigler considered this, then he scratched his head.
"But French . . . for Pete's sake!" Beigler's fleshy face suddenly brightened. "You reckon on going to Paris, Max?"
"I don't know. Anything's possible."
"You want to parlez with the girls . . . that it?"
Jacoby controlled a sigh.
"That's it, Sarg," he said, glad not to explain that he wanted to better himself.
"Listen, son, I've been to Paris," Beigler said seriously. "You don't have to talk French. If you want a girl, you just whistle. It's that easy. Rest your brains . . . you'll need them for your job."
"Yes, Sarg," Jacoby said and went back to the adventures of Monsieur Dupont who was ordering a coffee and making a tremendous fuss with the waiter.
At this moment, the telephone bell on Beigler's desk shrilled. Beigler scooped up the receiver with a large, hairy hand and listened to the voice that hammered against his ear drum, then he said, "Stay with it, Tom. I'll get Hess to you," and he slammed down the receiver. As he began to dial, he said without looking at Jacoby, "Call the Chief, Max. Robbery at the Casino. Two men dead," and then as Jacoby dropped his textbook and grabbed at another telephone, Beigler was already speaking to the Headquarters Control Room. "Alert all check points . . . robbery and murder at the Casino. All cars to be searched. Warning . . . these men are dangerous. Road blocks on all major and minor roads. They haven't been gone more than three minutes. Immediate action. Alert Hess." He waited only to hear the quiet, efficient voice of the controller say, "Okay, Sarg," and then he hung up.
He swivelled around in his chair and looked at Jacoby, who was just replacing his receiver.
"The Chief's coming," Jacoby said.
"Okay, Max. You stay here. I'm going down to the Casino." Beigler once again lifted the receiver. "Hess on duty?" he asked when the acting desk sergeant answered.
"Yeah. He's across the road, having a beer."
Beigler hung up, checked to see he was carrying his gun, then, struggling into his jacket, he left the Detectives' room, taking the stairs three at a time.
Four
CHIEF OF POLICE TERRELL arrived at the Casino twenty minutes after the shooting. This was pretty fast going considering he had been in bed and asleep when Jacoby had called him.