The Way the Cookie Crumbles
- Автор: Чейз Джеймс Хэдли
- Серия: Frank Terrell #2
- Год: 1965
- Язык: английский
- Год: Robert Hale
- ISBN: 978-0-7091-2531-0
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Way the Cookie Crumbles». Краткое содержание книги:
‘I’m certainly not,’ Mel began firmly, but she put her hand across his lips.
‘Don’t say anything you’ll regret later, Daddy dear. Just listen to me. If I’m going to be of any real use to you and to the bank, I should get to know your important clients. After all, I am your daughter. They will be as interested to meet me as I will to meet them. You can’t expect me to take a great deal of interest in the bank unless I have met some of the clients, can you? By meeting them, my work will come alive. Old Crawsure will have difficulty in replacing Doris. A lot of the staff are on vacation. There is also the security risk to consider. As your daughter, old Crawsure can’t object to me being in the vaults. So you see I am the obvious choice since I want to do the work.’
Mel looked at her. How like Muriel she was, he thought, and had a sudden bitter pang that his marriage hadn’t worked out. Norena had the same brittle beauty, the same hardness, the same calculated persuasion Muriel always used when she wanted to get her own way.
‘It’s not much fun, Norena, doing Doris’s work. You’ll be in the vaults all day. I think you’ll soon get tired of it.’
‘Do you imagine it is fun handling a computer?’ Ira asked, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Let me remind you, Daddy, I’m not here for fun. I’m here to gain experience of banking methods.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Mel said and laughed. ‘Don’t expect me to swallow that one. Just why do you want to work in the vaults, Norena?’
She met his gaze steadily, very confident that she could handle this big, handsome man.
‘I want to meet some of the richest people in the world. that’s why. They are unknown species to me. I want to examine them, listen to them, learn from them.’
Mel hesitated, then shrugged. It could be a good idea, he thought, and was delighted she was showing so much interest in the bank.
‘I don’t know what Crawsure’s going to say about it,’ he said doubtfully.
‘Don’t ask him, Daddy, just tell him. You’re the Big Wheel around here. You don’t ask, you order,’ and picking up the telephone receiver, she said to the operator, ‘Connect Mr. Devon with Mr. Crawsure, please,’ and then with a little flourish and an enchanting smile, she handed the receiver to Mel.
At lunch time, Ira left the bank and drove rapidly along the broad promenade, weaving her T.R.4 through the traffic, indifferent to the male eyes and the occasional whistles. At the end of the promenade, she turned down a narrow street and pulled up outside a small pizza restaurant.
Leaving the car, she entered the dimly-lit restaurant and walked to the bar.
Algir was sitting at the end of the bar, a Martini before him, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips.
Ira joined him and ordered a Coke which Algir paid for grudgingly. When the barman had gone to the other end of the bar, Ira opened her handbag and took from it a small cardboard box. This she slid over to Algir.
‘That’s the impression of the pass key,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Tell Ticky there’s no trouble. As soon as I can get the impressions of other keys, I’ll let you have them.’
Algir opened the box and examined the impression made in a lump of putty. He saw at once that he would have little trouble in cutting the key, and he nodded.
‘This is okay.’
Ira finished her drink and slid off the stool.
‘Don’t rush away,’ Algir said, staring at her slim body. ‘I’ll buy you a pizza.’
‘Buy yourself one. I don’t need one,’ she returned and swiftly left the restaurant, got into her car and drove back along the promenade. She stopped outside her usual snack bar, went in and ordered a chicken sandwich on rye bread. While she was eating the sandwich, her mind was busy.
She had now been away from New York for a month. The sudden change from poverty to riches hadn’t made the impact on her that she had imagined it would. Looking back, she realized since she had left New York, she hadn’t had a moment of real happiness. She knew why. There was no fun living in luxury, owning a car and having unlimited pocket money without Jess Farr to share it all with her.
Without him, life was flat and stale: a photograph out of focus. She missed their physical relationship. At least four nights a week, after the jam session, Farr took her back to his sordid little room where they made violent and often brutal love. As she sat in the sunshine, nibbling at her sandwich, her body clamoured for Farr.
Now she had succeeded in getting into the vaults, she decided she wasn’t going to wait much longer. During the past days, she had been coming around to the idea that Jess must be given the chance of joining her. Whether he would or not remained to be seen. For all she knew, he might have found another girl. She had never been sure of him.
He had used her body and had been content to go around with her, but she wasn’t at all sure how he felt towards her. At least, this was something she would know if she wrote to him, telling him to come. If he didn’t come, then that was that, but if he did...
Having him in Paradise City would be dangerous, she told herself as she paid her check. But this she would explain to him. Jess was no fool. He would understand her position. He would have to keep out of Mel Devon’s way. Ticky and Algir mustn’t have the slightest suspicion that he had joined her.
She would have to buy him an air passage from New York to Miami. She had no idea how much that would cost. She would also have to provide him with funds. When Jess wanted money, he stole it. She couldn’t have him doing that here.
As she got into her car, she decided it would be asking for trouble to bring Jess out here until she had raised some money. The money she got from the first safe she opened would have to go to Jess. That was the obvious way to do it.
A vague feeling of uneasiness stirred at the back of her mind. She remembered Edris’ warning. He was as dangerous as a rattlesnake, and now she was planning to double-cross him. She stiffened her back. No pint-sized dwarf could scare her, she told herself. She wanted Jess, and she was going to have him.
Six feet of brawn and muscle, his leathery complexion riddled with tiny burst veins, his bulbous nose pock marked, Hyam Wanassee looked what he was: a roughneck Texas millionaire.
This was his last day of a six-week vacation at Paradise City. He and his wife were leaving on the night flight for Texas, and he was leaving with considerable regret. The thought of returning to the sandstorms, the wind and the ulcer-forming pressure of Texas depressed him. At sixty-three, he found the desk work, the long hours in the oil fields and the nag-nag-nag of the telephone a drudgery.
If he had been allowed to have his own way, he would have happily retired to Paradise City, leaving his son to take care of his oil wells. He liked nothing better than to sit on the beach and watch the girls in their skimpy bikinis, drink whisky, eat seafood and in the evenings, gamble at the Casino. But his skinny, ageing wife would have none of that. ‘When a man retires he gets into mischief,’ she had said often enough, ‘and that’s one thing you’re not going to do, Hyam, as long as I have breath in my body!’
At 15.00 hours Wanassee’s chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce pulled up outside the Florida Safe Deposit Bank. Wanassee left the car and climbed the steps to the bank’s entrance.
He was a well-known figure at the bank and the guards respectfully saluted him.
The guards at the grill, leading to the vaults, always dispensed with the formalities of identifying him. One of them saluted, then unlocked the grill and motioned him to the stairs.
‘This is my last visit, boys, until next year,’ Wanassee said, pausing. ‘It has gone goddamn fast this time.’
One of the guards said he hoped Wanassee had had a fine time. The other said it would be a pleasure to see him again.