"Now . . . the money," Maisky said, placing his finger tips together. "I am quite happy to take one and a half million for myself. That leaves you two a million. I think that is fair. After all, I engineered the plan. I shall have to remain here for a few weeks, but this I have already discussed with Mrs. Whiteside. You are being well paid for putting up with me. Do you accept these terms?"
There was a pause, then, as Tom was hesitating, Sheila said, "Yes . . . all right."
She was thinking if this little freak imagined he was going to walk out of here with a million and a half dollars, the joke would be on him. She thought of the .25 automatic she had hidden. When the time came for him to leave, he would walk into one hell of a surprise.
Tom stared at her.
"We can't agree!" he exclaimed. "We're not keeping a dollar of the money! We could go to jail for twenty years! I've had enough of this! I . . ."
"Will you shut up, you gutless ape!" Sheila screamed at him. Her fury was so violent, it silenced him.
Maisky giggled.
"And they call women the weaker sex," he said. "Well now, my pretty, so we are agreed?"
"You heard me, didn't you?" Sheila snapped at him.
Maisky smiled, his eyes glittering. She's dangerous, he thought, and greedy. Well, if she imagined she was going to get a cent out of this, she needed to have her pretty head examined. All the same, he would have to watch her.
"Fine." He appeared to relax. "Now that's arranged, and we don't have to worry our heads further about it, perhaps I could go on watching the wrestling. It amuses me." He got up and turned on the TV set. "A wonderful invention, Mr. Whiteside . . . a great timepasser."
Tom got up and walked stiffly into the kitchen.
As the strident, excited voice of the commentator began to fill the room, Maisky dismissed Sheila with a wave of his hand.
"Run along, my pretty," he said. "I am sure this must bore you."
She stared at him, then got up and joined Tom in the kitchen.
* * *
"Any coffee left, Chief?" Beigler asked, lighting a cigarette from the stub of another. He leaned back in his chair, his heavy frame making the chair creak.
"There's a drop," Terrell said and pushed the carton across the desk. "You smoke too much, Joe."
"Yeah." Beigler poured coffee into the paper cup. "That's always been my trouble." He drank the coffee and then picked up the long typewritten report that had come from the road blocks. It contained a twenty-page list of car numbers and car owners who had passed through the road blocks on their way out of town. "This is getting us nowhere fast."
"Keep at it," Terrell said. "We're gaining some ground. We now know where he hired the truck and the trucker has a good description of him. When we catch up with him, we have him for sure."
"We haven't caught . . ." Then Beigler paused, stared at the list he was holding and stiffened. "Hey, Chief! Look at this!" He passed the sheet to Terrell, his thumbnail underscoring the typewritten line.
Terrell read Franklin Ludovick, Mon Repos, Sandy Lane, Paradise City. Lic. No. P.C. 6678.
"Whose report?"
"Fred O'Toole."
"Get him here!"
Beigler called down to Charlie Tanner.
"We want Fred. Is he at the road block still?"
"Hold it." There was a pause, then Tanner said, "No. He's back home. Clocked off half an hour ago."
"Get him. Send a car, Charlie . . . pronto."
"Will do," Tanner said and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Patrolman Fred O'Toole walked into Terrell's office. He was out of uniform and showed signs of having scrambled into a pair of slacks and an open-neck shirt.
"Come in, Fred," Terrell said, waving to a chair. "Sorry . . . I guess you were putting your feet up."
"That's okay, sir," O'Toole said, stiffly at attention. It was all right for the Chief to be friendly, but Beigler was his boss.
"Sit down," Terrell said. "Don't we have any coffee in this place?"
Beigler grabbed the telephone. He told Tanner to send out for coffee.
"What again?" Tanner said wearily.
"You heard me," Beigler said and hung up. "Relax, Fred."
Uneasily, O'Toole sat on the edge of a chair.
"Fred . . . this Buick coupe. Owner, Franklin Ludovick," Terrell said, passing the typewritten sheet across the desk. "What can you tell me about it?"
"It came through the road block as stated, sir. It was driven by Tom Whiteside, the G.M. agent."
"Dr. Whiteside's son?"
"That's correct, sir."
"Go on."
"He said he had broken down and had borrowed the car from a client."
Terrell and Beigler exchanged glances.
"Did you check the car, Fred?"
"Not on the inward trip, sir. We weren't checking incoming cars, but a couple of hours later, he came back. He said he was returning the car. I checked it then. It was clean."
"Was he on his own?"
"His wife was with him."
Terrell thought for a moment, then nodded.
"All right, Fred, you get back home. Have them drive you back."
When O'Toole had gone, Terrell got to his feet. Beigler was already putting his .38 into its holster. He then snatched up the telephone receiver and told Tanner that Jacoby and Lepski were to report to the car pool pronto.
"I've got your coffee," Tanner said.
"Drink it for me," Beigler said and hung up.
He followed Terrell down to the car pool. As they got into a police car, Lepski and Jacoby came running down the ramp. They scrambled into the back as Beigler set the car in motion.
Terrell explained the set-up to them.
"You two cover us. Lepski: take care of the back. Watch it! Could be a tricky one. We'll play it by ear."
Ten minutes later, the car pulled up outside the Whitesides' bungalow.
Terrell and Beigler walked up the path and rang on the front- door bell.
Nine
TOM WHITESIDE had just finished sweeping the soil off the garden path when he saw Detective 2nd Grade Lepski appear in the lane at the bottom of his garden. He recognised him immediately. Lepski was a wellknown character in Paradise City. The sight of him made Tom's heart skip a beat. Looking quickly away from the detective, he leaned the broom against the wall and walked into the kitchen.
In the living-room, Maisky saw the police car pull up and Terrell and Beigler start up the path.
"It's the police," he said quietly to Sheila. "Now, don't lose your head. Remember I am Father Latimer from New Orleans. It's going to be all right if you handle it right."
His calm, confident tone quietened Sheila's momentary panic. As the front-door bell rang, Maisky went on, "Let them in. Act naturally and relax."
He sat down in a lounging chair after a brief glance in the mirror over the mantelpiece to make sure his wig was on straight.