"We want Hess here and the squad," he said. "The dirt road between Miami and the City's highway. Hurry it up!"
He then went back up the path. Tom continued to sit in the car. He smoked four cigarettes and waited another fifteen minutes before Terrell appeared.
"The Buick's not there," Terrell said, "You are sure you left it in the glade?"
Tom stiffened.
"Yes, Chief. That's where we left it."
"We've found his hideout . . . a cave, but no car."
"That's where we left it."
Two police cars came bumping down the dirt road and pulled up. Hess and his squad spilled out.
"Go ahead, Fred. We've found his hide-out," Terrell pointed to the path. "Get your men working on it."
Beigler, lighting a cigarette, joined Terrell.
"We'll drive to the highway," Terrell said. They got in the car, Terrell sitting beside Tom. Five miles fast driving brought them to the parked Buick.
"Well, here it is," Terrell said. They all got out and walked to the car. Beigler tried to open the boot, but it was locked. He looked at Tom. "Can you open it?"
Tom nearly fell for this, but at the last split second, his mind became alive and he shook his bead.
"I have an ignition key, but not the key to the boot."
Beigler stared at him, then went to the police car, got a tyre lever from the tool box and returned to the Buick. He wrestled for a long moment, before he broke the lock. He lifted the lid of the boot.
"Nothing," he said and then looked at Terrell. "Could be he swopped cars again, Chief."
"Okay, Joe. Let's get back to headquarters. We can drop Mr. Whiteside on the way."
They got in the police car and Beigler sent it shooting along the highway.
"Maisky could have stashed the carton some place before he moved into the cave," Terrell said, speaking his thoughts aloud. "We know he couldn't have got the carton past the road blocks, but he's a bright boy. It is just possible he has hidden the carton somewhere and has got out. That sum of money is worth waiting for. He might be prepared to wait six months before coming back here and collecting the money."
Beigler grunted. "We must be sure no one answering his description has left town without the carton."
"More work," Beigler said. "Where could he hide a box that size?"
"Any left-luggage office for a start. But he couldn't have handled it on his own. We'll get it on TV and the radio. Someone might have spotted him."
Tom listened to all this, realising that these two didn't even suspect him of having the money. This was something, he thought, he found hard to believe, until he again thought of his father. It was his father as usual who gave him his background of respectability. Even from the grave, his father was casting a cloak of protection around him, and Tom felt ashamed.
They pulled up outside his bungalow.
"Okay, Mr. Whiteside. Thanks for your help," Terrell said. "We won't bother you now. Tomorrow, I'll want a statement from you." He regarded Tom's white, strained face. "I guess you should get to bed."
"I think I'll do that," Tom said. "Whatever I ate is playing hell with me."
As the police car drove away, Sheila opened the front door. Maisky was standing in the living-room doorway. Both of them were very tense.
"Well?" Sheila asked as Tom came up the path.
"It's okay so far," Tom said, moving past her. To Maisky, he went on, "They think you have hidden the carton somewhere and have left town."
Maisky smiled.
"Suppose we all have a cup of tea?" he said. "Get us some tea, my pretty. There is nothing like tea when you have had a shock."
To Tom's surprise, Sheila went into the kitchen and put on the kettle.
"We'll get away with this," Maisky said, sitting down and pressing his finger tips together. He beamed at Tom. "I have a feeling about it. You see . . . we'll get away with it."
Tom went into the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, shed his jacket and dropped flat on the bed. He felt cold and sick. He lay back and closed his eyes.
Later, he heard Sheila go into the sitting-room and the chink of tea cups. She came to the bedroom door.
"Do you want tea?"
Without opening his eyes, he shook his head.
"Just leave me alone . . . will you?"
"Don't act like a goddamn prima donna!" Sheila said furiously. "Pull yourself together! Don't just lie there!"
He opened his eyes and stared at her. How could he have possibly loved this woman? he thought. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed.
"I want you to get out of here as soon as it is safe to move the money," he said. "I've had enough of you. Take the money . . . take that little ape with you, but get out and leave me alone! I'm not touching a dollar of that money! Do you hear! All I want is to see the last of you!"
She stared at him, startled, then she threw back her head in a strident laugh.
"Mr. Cheapie to the end. Do you imagine I don't want to see the last of you, you poor creep? Okay, if that's the way you want it, it suits me fine. When our little pal thinks it is safe to go, I'll go too, but not before."
