The attack seemed over. Goddam it! He was actually hungry.
He cooked and enjoyed a breakfast of ham and eggs, washed down with weak coffee, then he shaved and washed in a bucket of water. He then sat on the bed of blankets, resting for twenty minutes, but he still felt perfectly normal. It was a miracle, he thought. The previous night, he thought he was going to die.
Soon his mind began to concentrate on the money. He would have to leave the cave. Those two might just possibly tell the police about the Buick, although he doubted it. They had taken the money so were they likely to alert the police? All the same, it would be risky to remain here and he never took risks.
He wondered where he should go, then he suddenly smiled. He took from his wallet the old bill on which he had written the address: Tom Whiteside, 1123, Delpont Avenue, Paradise City. What better place . . . where the money was?
He went over to the far end of the cave and squatted down before a shabby suitcase which he opened.
Maisky's years of associating with criminals had taught him to be always prepared for the unexpected. He had decided, long before the robbery, that there might come a time when he would have to drop out of sight. So he had come prepared. From the suitcase, he took out a thick, white wig, a black coat, black trousers, a black slouch hat and a clergyman's collar.
Ten minutes later, he was completely transformed. The small, frail, white-haired cleric who stared at his reflection in the hand mirror had no resemblance to Serg Maisky who had planned and executed the Casino robbery. He put on horn-rimmed spectacles, ran his fingers carefully through the false white hair, then put on the hat. He was sure he could walk past any policeman in perfect safety.
Then he packed the suitcase with the various things he would need, making it as light as possible. With a brief look around the cave, he walked slowly down the path and to the Buick.
He drove down the five miles of dirt road, stopped the car, parking it against a hedge. Then, carrying his suitcase, he walked slowly to the highway and to the bus stop.
"Don't go off without giving me some money," Sheila said as Tom put on his jacket.
"Come the time when you forget the word money . . . come the time." He gave her a five-dollar bill. "Nurse it. We're short. We could be in trouble at the end of the month."
"Come the time when we're not in trouble."
"I've got to get off. You stay right here, Sheila. I'll bring in supper."
"I'll stay."
When he had gone, she had a second cup of coffee, looked at her watch and grimaced. As it was only twenty minutes past eight, she went back to bed, but she was restless and couldn't sleep. She kept thinking of the three $500 bills in the Kleenex box._ Finally, she got out of bed and took them from the box. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she examined each of them closely. They looked perfectly ordinary, but, not content with her scrutiny, she went into the sittingroom and found a magnifying glass Tom sometimes used to check small scale maps. Putting on the reading lamp, she went over each note under the glass. They were not marked, she decided. She was absolutely convinced of this . . . so why not spend them? She remembered what Dylan had said about the banks checking the big bills. Well, okay, she wouldn't go to a bank. Suppose she put a small bet on a horse and gave the bookie one of the bills? Bookies were used to handling $500 bills. They would give her change.
Pleased with this idea, she put the bills back in the Kleenex box and returned to bed. There was an all-night betting shop downtown. When Tom got back, she would say she had to have a breath of air and then go down there and place a bet.
Around eleven o'clock, having read the newspaper and getting bored with herself, she got up and dressed. She went into the kitchen, opened the window and looked down at the freshly turned soil of the flower bed. Tom had certainly made a mess on the path. It had been too dark for him to see it, but now, in daylight, it looked a real mess. She was wondering if she should go out and sweep up when she heard the front-door bell ring. She stood motionless, alert and tense, then, when the bell rang again, she went to the front door. Her heart sank when she saw Harry Dylan standing there.
"Good morning, Mrs. Whiteside," he said cheerfully. "My word! Talk about energy! I see you've dug up your back bed. When did you do it . . . last night?"
Sheila kept her face expressionless with an effort although she could have killed this fat, little bore.
"Oh, that . . . Tom got a sudden bee in his bonnet. Yes . . . last night. He has too much energy."
"I was wondering when you were going to dig it up. It's a nice bed . . . a good size. I have a box of petunias I can spare. They would do well there."
"Thanks a lot . . . but Tom has his own ideas."
"What's he planning to put in? Geraniums would do well too."
"I don't know and I couldn't care less," Sheila snapped. "Excuse me. I have something on the stove," and she shut the door. She stood for a long moment, then drew in a deep breath. That creep! He never misses a thing, she thought.
She now decided against cleaning up the path. As Dylan had already noticed the digging why should she do a chore Tom could do when he got home?
She looked at her watch. Every time she looked at it, she thought of the gold watch with its circle of diamonds in Ashtons, the jewellers, downtown. She longed for it, and every time she passed the shop, she stopped to stare at it. It was so cute! To think Tom was that mean he wouldn't give it to her for their anniversary!
She shrugged. It was only half past eleven. The morning seemed endless. She went into the lounge, hesitated before the TV, then, deciding there couldn't be any programme to hold her attention, she dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She was now beginning to feel sorry that she had agreed to stay in the bungalow all day. It was all right for Tom. He was getting around, talking to people. But she was now in prison! But she knew she daren't go out . . . suppose someone . . . but who? She sat up, frowning. The money was buried. Who could possibly come here and dig up the garden? It was a ridiculous thought. She hesitated, then decided she would go out. At least, she could go to the Sandwich Bar and have lunch. That would make a change from sitting in this dreary hole all day. Yes, she would do that.
She went into the bedroom and changed her shoes. As she was getting her coat out of the closet, the front-door bell rang.
If it's Dylan again, I'll kill him! she thought and marched angrily down the passage and jerked open the front door. Then she stiffened, startled.
A small, slimly built clergyman stood on the doorstep. He was carrying a shabby suitcase and he looked at her, his grey eyes mild behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. His shock of white hair made two big wings under his black hat.
"Mrs. Whiteside?"
"Yeah, but I'm busy," Sheila said, curtly. "Sorry, we don't give to the church," and she began to shut the door.
"I have come about the money, Mrs. Whiteside," Maisky said gently. "The money you stole."
Sheila turned to stone. She felt the blood drain out of her face. The shock of his words made such a devastating impact on her, she thought she was going to faint.