Two
HARRY LEWIS, Director of the Casino, neatly parked his black Fleetwood Cadillac in a vacant parking bay outside police headquarters, cut the engine and slid out into the early morning sunshine.
Lewis, tall, thin, elegantly dressed, was moving into his late fifties. He had been in charge of the richest Casino in the world now for fifteen years. He had the air of affluence and supreme confidence that only a background of extreme wealth can give a man.
He walked up the steps and into the Charge Room, where the desk sergeant, Charlie Tanner, was coping with a mass of drunk-incharge-of-a-car reports.
Seeing Lewis, Tanner dropped the reports and jumped to his feet.
'Morning, Mr. Lewis. Something I can do?"
Lewis always recieved V.I.P. treatment from the police. They were well aware of his generosity at Christmas and Thanksgiving Day. Every detective and every patrolman received a sixteen- pound turkey and a bottle of Scotch on these two festivals, and they realised this generosity must cost a whale of a lot of money.
"The Chief in?" Lewis asked.
"Sure, Mr. Lewis. You go right on up," Tanner said. "How's your wife, Charlie?"
Tanner grinned happily. This was another thing about Lewis. He seemed to know everything about everyone in Paradise City. Tanner's wife had just come out of hospital after a difficult miscarriage.
"Fine now, Mr. Lewis . . . and thanks."
"You must take care of her, Charles," Lewis said. "We men take our wives too much for granted. Where would we be without them?" He flicked a folded bill across the desk. "Fuss her . . . women like being fussed."
He walked over to the stairway that led to Chief of Police Terrell's office. Tanner's eyes grew round when he saw the bill was for $20.
Lewis tapped on Terrell's door, pushed it open and walked into the small, sparsely furnished room.
Chief of Police Terrell, a massively built man with sandy hair, turning white at the temples and a jutting, aggressive jaw was pouring coffee from a carton into two paper cups. Sergeant Joe Beigler, his right-hand man, watched the coffee with an eye of an addict while he rested his big frame in a creaking, upright chair. Both men stiffened as Lewis walked casually into the little room. Beigler got to his feet. Terrell reached for another paper cup, smiling.
"Hello, Harry . . . you're early," he said. "Have some coffee?" Lewis took Beigler's chair, shaking his head.
"You two . . . you seem to live on coffee," he said. "Busy?"
Terrell lifted his massive shoulders.
"We're starting the day . . . nothing very special. Something on your mind?"
Lewis selected a cigarette from a gold case. Beigler was quick to give him a light.
"At this time of the season, Frank, I have always plenty on my mind," he said. "But tomorrow's something special. I thought it would be an idea to talk to you. Tomorrow, we are expecting twenty top class gamblers from the Argentine who are really out to win some money from us. These boys don't give a damn how much they lose. We have the job of coveting their play. There will be a lot of money in the Casino and I thought some police protection might be sound. Think you can help me?"
Terrell sipped his coffee, then nodded.
"Of course. What do you want, Harry?"
"I am moving three million dollars in cash from the bank to the Casino tomorrow morning. I'll have four of my guards with the truck, but I would also like a police escort. That's a lot of money, and I want to be sure it arrives all in one piece."
"That's easy. We'll have six men with you," Terrell said.
"Thanks, Frank, I knew I could rely on you. Then I would like three or four of your men at the Casino in the evening. I don't anticipate trouble. I have twenty good men of my own, but I think it would have a depressing effect on anyone with ambitions to see the police were around too."
"I'll fix that. You can have Lepski and four patrolmen." Lewis nodded.
"Lepski would be just the man. Well, thanks, Frank." He tapped ash off his cigarette, then went on, "What's the situation like? Anyone here I should know about?"
"No. We have had a number of hopefuls, but they have been recognised and turned back. From the reports I've been looking at we haven't one really dangerous specimen in town." Terrell finished his coffee and began to fill his pipe. "You can relax, Harry. I'm satisfied. We have really been working on this thing. There is, of course, the odd chance that some amateur might have a try at you, but with the extra precautions, you don't need to worry." He regarded Lewis thoughtfully. "You have no reason to worry, have you?"
"No reason . . . I worry just the same."
"Well, don't. What time are you collecting the money from the bank?"
"Ten-thirty sharp."
"Okay. I'll have my men at the bank and they will escort you. Okay?"
Lewis got to his feet.
"I think I will relax," he said and shook hands.
When he had gone, Beigler reached for the carton of coffee.
"Three million dollars!" His voice was outraged. "What a goddam waste of money! Think what one could do with all that dough . . . and it's going to be used to give a bunch of Spicks a thrill."
Terrell eyed him, then nodded.
"It's their money, Joe. It's our job to take care of it for them." He flicked down the switch on his inter-corn. "Charles? Where's Lepski? I want him."
* * *
At seven o'clock on this Friday morning, Serge Maisky got out of bed, put on the coffee percolator and then took a shower. He shaved with a cut-throat razor, dressed, then went into the small kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Carrying the cup into the shabby living-room, he sat down and sipped the coffee.
So far, he decided, everything was going according to plan. Jess Chandler was staying at the Beach Hotel. Perry was at the Bay Hotel, Mish Collins was at the Sunshine Hotel and Wash was at the Welcome Motel. Tonight, the four men would come to his bungalow and rehearse their particular jobs. He was now satisfied, having met the men, that he had a team he could rely on. Mish Collins' choice had been sound.
He finished his coffee, washed up the cup and saucer, then went to a closet where he had stored two five-gallon plastic containers. These he filled with water from the kitchen tap. He then collected a fair-sized carton full of canned food from another closet in the kitchen. He carried the carton to his Buick and put it in the boot. He then went back and carried out the two plastic containers which he also put in the boot.
His movements were slow and deliberate. He was feeling his years. He was sharply conscious that he was sixty-two and exertion of any kind didn't agree with him.
He paused for a long moment to make certain he had forgotten nothing, then, remembering the batteries for his flashlight, he collected them from a drawer in his living-room and now decided he was ready to go.
He locked the door of his bungalow and then walked to his car, slid under the driving wheel and started the motor.
Thirty minutes later on the highway out of Seacombe, which was a suburb of Paradise City, Maisky edged the car on to the far right-hand lane, then swung off on to a dirt road that led in a climbing drive into the pine forest that circled the outskirts of Seacombe and Paradise City.