1958 - The World in My Pocket (18 page)

Ginny shook her head.

‘No.’

‘You’ll like it. It’s terrific, and they know how to treat you. My name’s Fred Bradford. That’s my wife, Millie and Fred junior, my kid. You got any kids?’

Ginny laughed.

Listening to this, Bleck marvelled that her laugh sounded so natural.

‘Well, no, not yet,’ she said. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

Bradford smacked his thigh. His good-natured laugh grated on the ears of the listening men.

‘Say! That’s a good one! Hear that, Millie! They’re on their honeymoon, and big mouth has to ask if they’ve got any kids.’

The woman in the car frowned disapprovingly.

‘Come on, Fred,’ she called sharply. ‘You’re embarrassing the lady.’

‘Yes, I guess I am,’ Bradford said, grinning. ‘Excuse me, Mrs . . e r . did I get your name?’

‘Harrison,’ Ginny said. ‘I’m sorry my husband is so busy.’

‘Think nothing of it. Well, maybe we’ll see more of you both,’ Bradford said. ‘Anyway, if we don’t, a happy honeymoon.’

‘Thanks,’ Ginny said.

The man went back to his car, got in and waved; then he drove on up the road.

Morgan and Bleck exchanged uneasy glances.

‘If this punk starts shooting,’ Bleck said, ‘they’ll hear the shot.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Morgan said, feeling too bad to care. ‘They must hunt in these woods. They’ll think it’s some guy after game.’ He took hold of the tyre lever. ‘Come on! Let’s take him!’

Kitson called through the window.

‘What’s going on?’

Morgan paused to lift the window an inch.

‘Stay right where you are,’ he said. ‘Just warn us if anyone else comes. We’re going to take him now.’

Kitson backed away, feeling suddenly sick.

Morgan shut the window and nodded at Bleck.

‘Ready?’

‘Yeah.’

As Morgan pulled down on the tyre lever, Gypo hid his face in his hands.

II

D
ave Thomas, the driver of the truck, lay on the floor of the truck, suffering the agony of his shattered jaw with the stoic courage of the undefeated.

Morgan’s bullet had passed through the lower part of his face, smashing the jaw bone and cutting a furrow across his tongue. The pain and shock had caused him to go off in a long faint, and it was some time before he came to. He was immediately aware that he was bleeding badly.

He lay only half aware what had happened, and wondering how it was possible for the truck to be moving and yet no one driving it.

He didn’t think he had very long to live. No one could lose the amount of blood he was losing and survive, but dying didn’t frighten him. He was sure that if a miracle did happen and he did live, there wasn’t much they could do about his injuries. He had no wish to go around looking like a freak and perhaps not being able to speak.

What held his concentrated interest was the jolting movement of the truck. He decided finally, and after some thought, that they must have got the truck into some kind of vehicle, and he thought this was a pretty smart move, but not smart enough. He had only to press down the switch on the radio set to send out a continuous signal that would home the police on to the truck, no matter how cleverly hidden it was.

This was something he felt he should do right away, but the radio set was immediately behind and above him and, to get at it, he would have to turn on his side and reach up with his arm above his head.

He knew if he moved over on his side, he would inflict pain on himself when, by lying still, the pain was at least bearable. So he lay very still, his eyes closed, and he thought about the lean, wolfish face of the man who had shot him. He wondered who the man was. The girl in the sports car was also in it. The whole plan had been pretty smart. That smash had looked convincing, and he was glad that Mike Dirkson, the guard, hadn’t been stampeded and had called the Agency and had reported the smash, otherwise the Agency might think they had been taken for a pair of suckers. At least they had had the Agency’s permission to investigate, not that that had done them any good then or now.

To think a kid as pretty as that girl, Thomas thought drowsily, could have got mixed up in such a desperate business. She reminded him a little of Carrie, his thirteen-year old daughter.

Carrie had the same coloured hair, but she wasn’t anything like as pretty as this girl, although she might grow up to be a beauty. One never knew about those things: it was just a matter of luck.

His daughter had always admired him, calling him her hero. She was always telling him how brave he was to drive a truck full of money.

He thought: well, she wouldn’t think I’m so damned brave now if she could see me lying here, and not doing anything about saving the truck just because I haven’t the guts to turn over on my side. She certainly wouldn’t think much of me now. There were two things he could do to save the truck: one was to set the radio signal going and the other was to press the button to scramble the time lock.

The scrambler button was near the steering wheel. To get at it, he would have to sit up and lean forward and what that movement would do to his shattered jaw made him sweat just to think of it.

Carrie would expect him to save the truck. His wife, Harriette, wouldn’t. She would understand, but Carrie had standards, and he would no longer be a hero to her if he didn’t try to save the truck. The Agency too would expect him to save the truck. If he did manage to make the effort, they might prove generous and take care of his wife and Carrie. You couldn’t be sure what they would do, of course, but it was pretty certain if these thugs broke into the truck, the Agency would think he hadn’t done his duty, and that might make a difference when it came to paying out a pension for Harriette: it might make a hell of a difference.

He thought: well, go on, be brave. The radio signal is the most important. Get that going first. All you have to do is to turn over on your side and reach up. The switch is just above your head. Push that down and, in half an hour or less, there’ll be a flock of patrol cars on their way and you’ll be a hero. Try it anyway. What’s a little pain?

But it took him some minutes to screw up his courage to move, and when he finally did, the flash of pain was so intense that he fainted again, and he lay still, his hand beyond the clutch pedal.

The unexpected sound of hammering brought him to and he opened his eyes.

Facing him was the steel shutter covering the driver’s window. He could see a slit of daylight now coming through the shutter. As he focused his eyes, he saw the end of a tyre lever being forced between the shutter and the window frame.

He thought: so they are coming to finish me. Well, that’s okay by me, but I’ll take one of them with me if they give me a chance. That’s the least I can do. Mike wouldn’t think much of me unless I hit back for him. I’d like to take two of them, but the way I’m placed I’ll be lucky to get one.

Weakly, his hand groped for his gun which he hadn’t a chance to draw when Morgan had shot him. The gun was a .45 Colt automatic, and as it slid out of its holster, it felt very heavy; so heavy that Thomas nearly dropped it.

He made the effort, and got the gun down by his right side, the sight lifted and pointing at the window. He thought: well, come on, you punk! I’ve got something for you that’ll surprise you. Don’t keep me waiting. I’m not going to live much longer, so hurry up!

He heard someone say sharply, ‘Someone’s coming! Hold it!’

There was a long pause. He felt his consciousness beginning to leave him, and it was only with a tremendous effort of will that he fought off the feeling of faintness.

He muttered under his breath: ‘Hurry. Hurry.’

Then he heard a man say, ‘If this punk starts shooting, they’ll hear the shot.’

Another voice said, ‘It doesn’t matter. They must hunt in these woods. They’ll imagine it’s some guy after game. Come on! Let’s take him!’

The gun in Thomas’s hand was growing heavier, and he realized that he could no longer keep the sight on the window. He would have to wait until they opened the door. He would have a good chance for a body shot then.

He heard the tyre lever creaking as someone on the other side of the shutter bent his weight on it, and he waited, pain making it difficult for him to breathe, but intent and as dangerous and as vicious as a cornered and wounded lion.

‘Get another lever,’ a voice said, ‘and help me.’

Another lever end appeared through the opening. There was more creaking, then a sudden snapping noise and the shutter slid up.

Both Morgan and Bleck kept away from the open window.

They stood either side of the door of the cab and listened.

They didn’t hear anything and they looked at each other.

‘Do you think he’s foxing?’ Bleck asked, breathing with difficulty.

‘He could be,’ Morgan said.

Still keeping out of sight, he slid his arm through the open window and groped for the door handle.

Thomas watched him, his eyes half shut, his finger tightening a little on the trigger of his gun, taking in the slack.

Morgan got the door open. It swung Bleck’s way, preventing him from looking into the cab. Morgan looked in quickly, ducked forward and immediately pulled back. He had a brief glimpse of a man lying huddled on the floor of the cab, his eyes closed, his face the colour of wet clay. Morgan’s breath hissed through his teeth.

‘It’s okay,’ he said to Bleck. ‘He’s dead.’

Thomas thought: not quite, pal. You’ll find that out in a moment. Nearly dead, but not quite. He forced his will to lift his gun hand and he felt the gun, like a ton weight, move slightly as Morgan moved into the open doorway of the truck.

Morgan’s gun was pointing at Thomas, but this was merely a precautionary measure. He was quite satisfied that Thomas was dead. No one with that ghastly smashed face and that colour could possibly be alive.

‘We’d better get him out of here and bury him,’ he said and looked at Bleck, who was leaning forward staring through the window of the door, the door pressed against him, looking at Thomas.

Thomas opened his eyes.

‘Look out!’ Bleck yelled and tried to get his gun up, but he was handicapped by the door pressing against him. Thomas squeezed the trigger of his gun as Morgan shot him. The two guns went off simultaneously, sounding like one.

Morgan’s bullet hit Thomas in the throat, killing him instantly.

Thomas’s bullet hit Morgan in the stomach, and he folded at the knees, falling into the cab, his face in Thomas’s lap.

Gypo gave a long, shuddering cry.

For a long moment Bleck remained frozen. Then he pushed the truck door against Morgan’s legs and squeezed himself between the door and the side of the caravan.

He leaned into the cab, pulling Morgan over on to his back.

Morgan looked at him, his eyes glazed.

‘It didn’t work out,’ he muttered, his voice so low Bleck could scarcely hear him. ‘Good luck, Ed. You’ll need it. You’ll all need it.’

Bleck straightened. He found himself thinking that if they ever did succeed in breaking into the truck, they would each have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars now, since, instead of five, there were only four left to share the loot.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I

T
he cabin consisted of a bedroom, a sitting room, a tiny kitchen and a shower cabinet. It was pleasantly furnished with twin beds in the bedroom and two lounging chairs and settee in the sitting room. With a little improvisation, it was possible to sleep four there.

It had the advantage of being the most isolated cabin along the lake. It was the honeymoon cabin, the man in charge told Ginny with a knowing smile. They were lucky he could offer it.

The last couple who had had it only moved out last night. The man - his name was Hadfield - had got into the Buick with Ginny and Kitson and had directed them to the cabin. From time to time he glanced at Kitson, wondering why he looked so tense and why he scarcely spoke a word. He thought the guy was probably nervous, facing his first night as a husband, although why any man should feel nervous with a girl as pretty as this one, Hadfield couldn’t understand.

The girl was nervous too, but that was to be expected. All nice girls, Hadfield thought sentimentally, were nervous on their honeymoon and he couldn’t do enough for her. He showed her where she could park the caravan, right beside the cabin, and pointed out the boat house where they could hire a boat if they wanted one. He said they wouldn’t be disturbed.

‘Folks here are pretty sociable, Mrs. Harrison,’ he told her after he had unlocked the cabin and had shown her where everything was kept. ‘They drop in on each other, but I guess you two would like a little privacy, anyway for a day or two,’ and he winked at Kitson, who stared stonily at him. ‘I’ll pass the word around. You won’t be bothered until you are good and ready.’

There had been nothing the four of them could do until dark.

That had been the worst period of this eventful day for them.

Ginny had gone into the bedroom and had lain down on the bed. After a while she had dropped off into a sleep of exhaustion.

Kitson had remained on guard, smoking and keeping an eye on the caravan. Bleck and Gypo had been forced to remain in the caravan with the dead bodies of Morgan and Thomas for company. It had been a bad period.

When it was dark, Bleck and Gypo had come into the cabin. Gypo was in a bad way. He flopped into an armchair and hid his face in his hands. He had a big bruise on the side of his jaw where Bleck had hit him. There had been a time, when driving up to Fawn Lake, when Gypo had tried to break out of the caravan. He had started to yell and beat on the walls of the caravan. He had behaved as if he had gone off his head.

Bleck had had to hit him pretty hard. There was no other way of controlling him. When Gypo had come to, he had sat on the floor of the caravan, silent and limp. The eight long hours Bleck and he remained in the caravan, waiting for darkness with the windows shut tight to keep out the flies, had been an experience that neither of them was likely to forget.