She leaned back so she could look at him.
“Of course. I'd love to marry you,” she said, thinking this was the first time any man had asked her to marry him.
“Okay, then we'll get married,” Harry, said, smiling at her, “but we won’t rush into it. We'll get this job behind us first, and then we'll take the plunge. What do you say?”
“Why not tomorrow , Harry?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “At least, we could apply for the licence . . . .”
“No point in rushing it,” he said, and kissed her. “I don't want anything on my mind when I get married. I just want it to be a long, long honeymoon. We'll wait until this job's over.”
She nodded, feeling deflated.
“Yes,” she said. “We'll wait.”
chapter two
I
Ben Delaney had come up a long way since Glorie's time. Then he had been an ambitious gangster with an eye for the fast buck, who moved into any profitable field, milked it dry and moved on again in search of something else as easy and as profitable. If he had met with opposition, he had retaliated with gunfire. But now it was different. He regarded himself as a successful business man with innumerable irons in the fire. Some of these irons were actually legitimate, such as his two nightclubs, his taxi-hire service, his wire service to bookmakers, and his swank motel at Long Beach. These profitable sidelines had been financed by the proceeds of his less legitimate activities that included drug peddling, blackmail, organized vice and extortion. Another of his profitable sidelines was the distribution and marketing of stolen jewellery, and he had gained a reputation for himself as one of the best-paying fences on the coast.
He lived in a luxurious mansion that stood in a two-acre garden on Sunset Boulevard. The right wing of the twenty-bedroom house had been equipped as a suite of offices, and it was here that Ben ruled his little kingdom.
No longer did he have to carry a gun: he had enough money now to employ a small army of thugs to watch his interests and discourage any competition or anyone foolish enough to attempt to horn in on his territory. His annual pay-off to the police was considerable and gave him complete immunity from trouble. He lived well, entertained lavishly, and if it were not for the Press, he would have long ago been accepted as a worthy member of Los Angeles society. But certain sections of the Press refused to forget his gangster days, the fact that three times he had been tried on a homicide charge, although each time a clever attorney had blasted a hole in the evidence against him large enough for Ben to crawl through. Nor could they forget that he had been involved in the call-girl scandal of a year ago, although there had been no evidence offered against him. Every now and then, when news was slack, the editors of several newspapers wrote scathing leaders about Ben's past activities and hinted darkly that his present activities should be investigated. There were also hints of police protection and the need for an administrative shake-up. This was something Ben could do nothing about. He had been tempted to silence the most hostile of the editors, but remembering the Jake Lingle episode, decided the risk was too great. He pretended to ignore the Press, but seethed with fury inwardly. Because of the Press he remained on the outer-fringe of Los Angeles society knowing that the people he entertained and who flocked to his parties were second raters, hangers-on, the indiscriminate who went anywhere so long as the drinks were free.
On this Monday morning, he sat at his big desk in a lavishly furnished room whose big bay windows overlooked the swimming pool and the sunken rose garden. He was examining the monthly balance sheet that had been prepared by a qualified accountant he kept on his pay roll.
The results of the examination displeased him. Profits were down: expenses were up. From the look of the figures some of his staff had been throwing money about like drunken sailors, and his fleshy, hard face looked bleak as he noted down the sum he had to play with after he had met his current expenses. The sum fell alarmingly short of what he had hoped it would be. Not that it wasn't impressive. At any other time, he would have been satisfied, but it so happened that this year he had decided to fulfill a life's ambition. The hallmark of a successful man, in his opinion, was to own a yacht: not one of those toy things with sails, but a five-thousand tonner with accommodation for twenty people, a ballroom and maybe a swimming bath. To own a yacht of that size seemed to Ben to be the ultimate peak of a successful career. He had been considerably taken aback when he had received estimates from the leading yacht builders: the amount the thieves wanted to build him a yacht to his specifications astounded him. Looking at the sum he had to spare after he had taken care of his living expenses, he reckoned that he would need at least an additional million dollars if he were to order the yacht this year, and where the hell was a lump of money like that coming from?
He was pondering the problem when the squawk box on his desk crackled into life.
“There's a Miss Dane asking for you, Mr. Delaney,” his secretary said. “Miss Glorie Dane.”
Ben didn't even look up from his calculations.
“I don't know her and I don't want to. Tell her I'm tied up.”
“Yes, sir.”
The squawk box went dead.
But as Ben flicked through his bank pass sheets, he repeated the name in his mind. Glorie . . . He reached out on an impulse and pressed down the switch on the squawk box.
“Did you say Glorie Dane?”
“Yes, Mr. Delaney. She says it's personal and urgent.”
Ben grimaced.
That sounded like a touch. He hesitated, then remembering the times he had had with Glorie, he decided to see her. They had been good times. Then he hadn't a care in the world. He hadn't had ulcers nor a kingdom that wanted watching every minute of the day and night.
“Okay, shoot her in. I'll give her ten minutes. Come in and break it up when I ring.”
“Yes, Mr. Delaney.”
He shoved aside the papers that littered his desk, lit a cigar, got up and walked over to the window. He stared down at the immaculately kept beds and the last roses in bloom, then he shifted his eyes to the swimming pool that, during the winter months, was completely glassed in with the water raised to a temperature of seventy-five degrees. He could see Fay standing on the diving board, adjusting her red bathing cap. He took in her beautifully proportioned body, her long sun-tanned legs and he nodded his approval. Maybe she was a dim-brain, he thought, but she had what it takes. She cost him plenty, but in bed she was not only enthusiastic, but extremely efficient, and besides, men envied him his possession, and Ben liked nothing better than to be envied.
He turned around as he heard the door open. His dark, good-looking secretary said, “Miss Dane,” in her most snooty manner and stood aside as Glorie came into the room.
Ben stared at her, immediately regretting his impulse to see her. Surely this tired-looking, pale-faced woman couldn't be Glorie?
Why, for the love of mike, she looked old enough to be Fay's mother! And her clothes! She had certainly come down in the world. This was certain to be a touch.
The many photographs she had seen of Ben in the Press had prepared Glorie for the change in him, but even so she had a shock.
It wasn't so much that he was now pot-bellied, that his hair was thin and had white streaks in it. That was to be expected. He must be fifty-three or four now, but what shocked her was the expressionless face that when she knew him was always alert and lively and sun tanned, and which was now as white as cold mutton and a mask. His eyes scared her: they were granite hard and restless like the eyes of a vulture.