Before starting off over the rough grass, he looked at the boot of the Buick. He again thought of all that money, alive in his mind, but locked out of sight. There was nothing he could do about that . . . anyway, for the moment. Perhaps after a good sleep and a rest, he would be fit enough to move the money up to the cave.
Walking very slowly, his hand pressed against his chest, Maisky made his way cautiously up to the cave.
* * *
Mish and Chandler reached Maisky's bungalow around four a.m.
The bungalow stood under a group of palm trees within fifty yards of the sea. It was served by a narrow road that went on to a number of small bungalows and cabins, out of sight and some distance away.
As the two men approached the shabby little building, Chandler caught hold of Mish's shoulder, halting him.
"There's a car . . . look . . . to the left."
In the shadows, Mish could just make out a small car parked to the left of the bungalow. He squinted at it, frowning, then he pulled his gun from his hip pocket.
"That's not Maisky's car . . . it's a sports job."
"Whose then?"
"Let's go and find out," Mish said and began a cautious move forward.
"You don't think . . . the cops?" Chandler hung back.
"Not in a sports job . . . it's a T.R.4," Mish said impatiently.
The two men approached the car, keeping in the shadows. They paused when they were twenty yards or so from it and looked at the bungalow, which was in darkness.
"Maybe he had trouble with the Buick," Chandler said. "It's a bad starter. Maybe he used this one if he couldn't get the Buick to start."
"Yeah . . . that could be it," Mish said, relaxing. "I tell you, he's a real smart cookie. Yeah . . . that must be it," and he walked quickly to the T.R.4 and paused beside it.
The light of the coming dawn was spreading across the sky and the light was sufficient for Mish to see the dark stains on the white leather of the bucket seats. He frowned at them and looked at Chandler who had joined him.
"What's this?"
Mish touched one of the stains with his finger tip, feeling wet stickiness, and then holding his hand up to the growing light, he drew in a sharp breath.
"Judas! It's blood!"
"Maybe he was hit," Chandler said, uneasily. "He could be dead in there."
They moved quickly up the path that led to the front entrance of the bungalow, paused, listened, then Mish, gun in hand, eased open the door and the two men stepped into the stuffy, tiny hall.
"Maisky?" Mish said, raising his voice. "You there?"
"No . . . I am . . ." Perry said from the living-room. There was no giggle in his voice and it sounded far away. "Get in here quick!"
Mish jerked open the door, stared into the gloom, then his hand groped for the light switch, found it and snapped it down.
Perry sat in an armchair. He held a blood-soaked cushion against his belly. There was blood on the floor, his right trouser leg was black with blood. His washed-out blue eyes were slightly out of focus.
"I'm bleeding like a goddam pig," he said huskily. "Do something about it."
While Chandler stood staring at him, Mish went quickly into the bathroom and opened the cabinet door above the washbasin. His small eyes narrowed when he saw the cabinet was empty. He remembered the previous day when he had cut his hand opening a can of beer, Maisky had taken him into the bathroom and the cabinet had been well stocked with all kinds of first-aid and medical equipment. He ran into Maisky's bedroom, opened one of the drawers in the chest to find that empty too. Cursing, he snatched off the cover from the bed, ripped a sheet off and came back into the sitting-room.
Mish had dealt with many wounds in his past. He snapped to Chandler to get hot water and to hurry.
Twenty minutes later, Perry was lying on the settee. His fat face was drained white, but his wound had been skilfully bandaged. For the moment, at least, the bleeding had stopped.
While Mish was working on Perry, Chandler had gone through the bungalow.
"The bastard ratted on us!" he said, returning, his face white with rage. "I told you! He's pulled out!"
Perry opened his eyes.
"Get that car out of the way. Dump it somewhere. If the cops spot it . . ." He tried to go on, but faintness overtook him and his eyes closed.
Mish and Chandler looked at each other.
"Yeah . . . you lose it, Jess," Mish said. "If someone spots those bloodstains, we'll have the cops here like a swarm of bees."
"He ratted on us!" Chandler repeated.
"One thing at the time . . . get rid of that car!"
Chandler hesitated, then left the bungalow. Mish watched him through the window get in the car and drive away.
He looked around the room, saw a half bottle of whisky on the table and made a drink.
"Here . . ." he said, bending over Perry, who drank greedily.
"The little bitch . . . she shot me . . ." Perry murmured. He giggled. "She was a good lay . . . she . . ." He drifted off into unconsciousness.
Mish wiped his sweating face. There was a battered radio on one of the bookshelves and he turned it on. Then going into the kitchen he got a pail of hot water and a swab and, returning to the living-room, cleaned up the mess of blood on the floor. He also washed the armchair, although he couldn't entirely efface the bloodstains.
A voice suddenly broke in over the swing music: "We interrupt this programme of dance music coming to you from Paradise City Station XLL with a news flash. The Great Casino robbery. The police have issued the following descriptions of the three men wanted in connection with the robbery . . ." There followed a fairly accurate
description of Mish, Chandler and Perry. "These men are dangerous. If seen, please telephone Police Headquarters. Paradise City 7777."
Mish grinned uneasily. Well, the heat was now on. That old man in the glass box wasn't such a dope as he had looked. He snapped off the radio.
He poured himself a shot of whisky, drank it and then went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty and so was the store cupboard. Mish rubbed the back of his neck. He was hungry. Worried, he went back and stood looking down at Perry, shaking his head.
Perry had been shot in the stomach. The bullet had cut through a layer of fat and had nicked an intestine. Mish knew the wounded man badly needed hospital treatment, but that was out of the question.
What did he mean about a girl shooting him? Mish wondered.
He poured himself another drink, lit a cigarette, then cursed when he saw he had only two more left in the pack.
He was sitting brooding when Chandler, twenty minutes later, returned.
"Okay?" Mish asked.
"I dumped it." Chandler was jumpy. "Way out on the beach behind a sand dune. Listen, Mish, on the way back I've been thinking. We better get the hell out of here . . . go back to our hotels and sweat it out. At least we have some money."