An Ear to the Ground

One

I had this story from Al Barney, a beer-sodden beachcomber who haunts the waterfront of Paradise City, always on the lookout for a sucker to buy him a beer.

At one time, so I was told, Al Barney was the best skin diver on the coast. He had picked up a lot of money teaching diving, spearing sharks and laying the wives of the rich tourists who infest this coast in the season. But the beer rained him.

Al was an enormous man, weighing around three hundred and fifty pounds with a beer belly on him that rested like a balloon on his knees when he sat down. He was around sixty-three years of age, burned mahogany brown by years in the sun, balding, with an egg-shaped head, steely, small green eyes, a mouth that reminded me of a Red Snapper and a flat nose that spread half over his face from a punch he had had — so he told me — from an unreasonable husband who had caught him in the hay with his wife.

I had written a novel that had clicked lucky, and I had now enough spending money to escape the cold in New York, so I had come down to Paradise City which is on the Florida coast, knowing I could well afford to spend a month there before I got back to more work. I checked in at the Spanish Bay Hotel: probably the best and most deluxe of all the hotels in Florida. It only catered for fifty guests and offered a service that fully justified the cost of the final tab.

Jean Dulac, the manager of the hotel, a tall handsome man with impeccable manners and the polished charm that is unique to the French, had read my book. It had made a hit with him, and one evening as I was sitting on the floodlit terrace after one of those magnificent meals the Spanish Bay Hotel always provided, Dulac joined me.

He told me about Al Barney.

Smiling, he said, “He’s our very special local character. He knows everyone, knows everything about this City. It might amuse you to talk to him. If you are looking for material, you’ll certainly get something from him.”

After a week of swimming, eating too much, lazing in the sun and fooling around with a number of girls with beautiful bodies but no minds, I remembered what Dulac had told me about Al Barney. Sooner or later, I would have to get down to another book. I had no ideas, so I drove over to the Neptune Tavern on the oily waterfront where the sponge fishing boats docked and found Barney.

He was sitting outside the Neptune Tavern on a bollard, a can of beer in his hand, staring moodily at the boats as they came and went.

I introduced myself, telling him that Dulac had mentioned his name.

“Mr. Dulac? Yeah... a gentleman. Glad to meet you.” He extended a big grimy paw that was as soft and as yielding as a steel hawser. “So you’re a writer?”

I said I was.

He finished the can of beer, then tossed it into the harbour.

“Let’s go get us a drink,” he said and heaved his enormous bulk off the bollard. He led me across the quay and into the gloomy, dirty Neptune Tavern. A coloured barman grinned at him as we came in, his eyes sparkling. I could see from his expression that he knew Al had landed yet another sucker.

We drank and talked of this and that, then after his third beer, Al said, “Would you be looking for a story, mister?”

“I’m always looking for a story.”

“Do you want to hear about the Esmaldi diamonds?” Al peered hopefully at me.

“I’ll listen,” I said. “What have I to lose?”

Al smiled. He had an odd smile. The small Red Snapper mouth curved up. He looked as if he were smiling, but when I looked into the small green eyes, there was no smile there.

“I’m like a beat up old Ford,” he said. “I go five miles to the gallon.” He looked at his empty glass. “Keep me filled up, and I go like a bird.”

I went over to the grinning barman and got that problem straightened out. Al talked for four solid hours. Every time his glass was empty, the barman came over with a refill. I’ve seen drinking in my time, but nothing to match this.

“I’ve been around this little City now for fifty years,” Al said, staring at the beer in his glass with its white frothy head. “I’m a guy with his ear to the ground. I listen. I get told. I put two and two together. I’ve got contacts with the cops, the newspapers, the guys who know all the dirt... they talk to me.” He took a long drink of beer and belched gently. “You understand? I know the stoolies, the jail birds, the whores, the black boys who are always invisible, but who have ears. I listen. You get the photo, mister? A guy with his ear to the ground.”

I said I got it and what was all this about the Esmaldi diamonds?

Al put his hand under his dirty sweat shirt and scratched his enormous paunch. He finished his beer, then looked at the barman who grinned happily and came over to supply the refill. These two worked together like a piston and rod.

“The Esmaldi diamonds? You want to hear about them?”

“Why not?”

He regarded me, his little green eyes flinty.

“You could turn it into a story?”

“I don’t know... I could... how can I say without hearing about it?”

He nodded his bald, egg-shaped head.

“Yeah. Well, if you want to hear about it, it’ll take time, and although you might not believe it, mister, time is money to me.”

I had been warned by Dulac about this very thing, so I nodded.

“That’s okay.”

I took from my pocket two twenty dollar bills and handed them to him. He examined the bills, heaved a great sigh that raised his belly half off his knees, then put the bills carefully away in his trousers pocket.

“And beer?”

“All the beer you want.”

“A little food too?”

“Yes.”

For the first time since I had been with him, his smile seemed genuine.

“Well then, mister.” He paused to gulp more beer. “This is the way it was... the Esmaldi diamonds... it happened two years ago.” He rubbed his flat, broken nose as he thought, then he went on, “I got all this dope from the cops and from my contacts... you understand? I’m a guy with an ear to the ground. Some of it... not much... is guess work... putting two and two together, but most of it is fact. It began in Miami.”

Abe Schulman, so Al Barney told me, was the biggest fence in Florida. He had been in the business for some twenty years, and it was quite a business.

When the rich arrived on the Florida coast with their wives, their mistresses and their molls, their women had to be smothered in jewels — a status symbol. If you hadn’t diamond necklaces, emerald and ruby brooches with earrings to match and jewel studded bracelets up your fat arms, you were looked upon as white trash. So the jewel thieves from all over descended on the Florida coast like a swarm of wasps, their skillful fingers collecting a harvest. But jewels were no use to them... they wanted cash and here was where Abe Schulman came in.

He dwelt behind a glass door on which was a legend that read in tarnished gold letters:

It was true that Abe did have minor connections with Amsterdam. From time to time he made some kind of deal with certain Dutch diamond merchants: enough to justify a small income tax return and to explain why he dwelt in a tiny, shabby office on the sixteenth floor of a block overlooking Biscayne Bay.

But the real guts of his business was handling hot jewels, and in this he did extremely well, stashing away the cash — it always had to be cash — in various safe deposits in Miami, New York and Los Angeles.

When one of his contacts brought him some loot, Abe was able to say exactly how much this loot was worth. He would then pay one quarter of his evaluation. He would then remove the stones from their settings and walk the stones around to one of the many jewellers who he knew didn’t ask questions and sold the stones for half their market price. In this way, working steadily now for the last twenty years, Abe had accumulated a considerable fortune: enough for him to retire on happily, but Abe just couldn’t resist a bargain. He had to keep on, although he knew he was always taking a risk and the police could descend on him at any minute. But it now had become a compulsive thing with him: something he not only enjoyed, but which gave him the incentive to live.

Abe was a short, roly-poly man with hair growing out of his ears, his nose and from his shirt collar. Little clumps of black hair grew on the backs of his small, fat fingers so when he moved his hand on his desk, you had the impression of a tarantula spider coming towards you.

On a hot sunny day in May, just two years ago, Al Barney told me, Abe was sitting at his shabby desk, a dead cigar clamped between his sharp little teeth, regarding Colonel Henry Shelley with a watchful, blank expression that told anyone who knew Abe he was ready to listen, but not to believe.

Colonel Henry Shelley looked like one of those old, refined Kentucky aristocrats who own acres of land and a number of racehorses, who spend their lives either at every race meeting or sitting on their Colonial porches watching their faithful darkies doing the work. He was tall and lean with a mass of white hair, worn a little long, a straggly white moustache, a parchment yellow skin, deepset, shrewd grey eyes and a long, beaky nose. He wore a cream lightweight suit, a string tie and a ruffled shirt. His narrow trousers ended in soft Mexican boots. Looking at him, Abe had to grin with admiration. It was a beautiful performance, he told himself. He couldn’t fault it. Here, before him, seemed a man of considerable substance and culture: a refined, worldly old man who anyone would be proud to entertain in their rich homes.

Colonel Henry Shelley — that, of course, wasn’t his real name — was one of the smoothest and smartest con men in the business. He had spent fifteen years of his sixty-eight years behind bars. He had made a lot of money and had lost a lot of money. The names of the rich who he had swindled read like a Society Blue book. Shelley was an artist, but he was also improvident. Money slid through his old, aristocratic fingers like water.

Abe was saying, “I’ve got the guy you’ve been looking for, Henry. It’s taken time. It hasn’t been easy. If he doesn’t satisfy you, we’re in trouble. There isn’t anyone I can find better.”

Henry Shelley touched off the ash of his cigar into Abe’s ashtray.

“You know what we want, Abe. If you think he’s right, then I guess he will be right. Tell me about him.”

Abe sighed.

“If you knew the trouble I’ve had finding him,” he said. “The time I’ve wasted on useless punks... the telephone calls...”

“I can imagine. Tell me about him.”

“His name is Johnny Robins,” Abe said. “Good appearance. Age twenty-six. At the age of fifteen, he worked for the Rayson Lock Corporation. He worked there for five years. There is nothing he doesn’t know about safes, locks and combinations.” Abe jerked his thumb at the big wall safe behind him. “I thought that was pretty good, but he opened it in four minutes flat... I timed him.” Abe grinned at Shelley. “I don’t keep anything in it, otherwise I wouldn’t be sleeping so well. He left Rayson and became a racing driver... he’s crazy about speed. You’d better know right away that Johnny is a little tricky. He has a quick temper. There was trouble on the race track and he got fired.” Abe shrugged his fat shoulders. “He busted someone’s jaw... could happen to anyone, but this guy who got busted happened to be the top shot on the track, so Johnny got the heave-ho. He then got a job at a garage, but the boss’s wife got hot pants for him, so that didn’t last long. The boss caught them at it and Johnny busted his nose.” Abe chuckled. “Johnny sure is a mean hitter. Anyway, the boss called the cops and Johnny busted one of them before the other busted him. He spent three months in a hick jail. He told me he could have walked out any time he wanted. The locks were that simple, but he liked the company. Besides, he didn’t want to embarrass the warden who he got along with, so he stayed. Now, he is rearing to go. He’s young, tough, good-looking and a beautiful baby with locks. How does it sound?”

Shelley nodded.

“Sounds right to me, Abe. You told him anything about our set-up?”

“Only that there’s big money in it,” Abe said, walking his fat, hairy fingers along the edge of his desk. “He’s interested in big money”

“Who isn’t?” Shelley stubbed out his cigar. “Well, I’d better talk to him.”

“He’s at the Seaview Hotel, waiting for you.”

“He’s registered there as Robins?”

“That’s right.” Abe looked up at the ceiling, then asked, “How’s Martha?”

“Not as happy as she could be.” Shelley took out a white silk handkerchief and touched his temples with it. It was a trick Abe admired: it showed class.

“What’s biting her then?”

“She’s not happy about the cut, Abe.”

Abe’s fat face tightened.

“She’s never happy about any cut. I can’t help that. Anyway, she eats too much.”

“Don’t change the subject, Abe.” Shelley crossed one long leg over the other. “She thinks your offer of a quarter is a swindle. I’m inclined to agree with her. You see, Abe, this will be our last job. It’s going to be big. The best stuff — the biggest take.” He paused, then went on. “She wants to settle for a third.”

“A third?” Abe managed to look shocked and amazed at the same time. “Is she crazy? I won’t get a half for the stuff! What does she think I am... the Salvation Army?”

Shelley examined his beautifully manicured fingernails, then he looked at Abe, his shrewd eyes suddenly frosty.

“If anything goes wrong, Abe, and we get the cops on our collars, we keep you out of it. You know us. We take the rap. You sit here and collect the money. Unless you do something stupid — and you won’t, you’re safe. Martha is sick of this racket. So am I. We want enough money to get out. A quarter won’t give it to us, but a third will. That’s how it is. How about it?”

Abe appeared to think. Then he shook his head, a regretful expression on his fat face.

“I can’t do it, Henry. You know Martha. She’s greedy. Between you and me, if I gave you a third, I’d be out of pocket. That wouldn’t be fair. If I handle this stuff, I must make a reasonable profit. You understand that?”

“A third,” Shelley said gently. “I know Martha too. She’s set her mind on a third.”

“It can’t be done. Look, suppose I talk to Martha?” Abe smiled. “I can explain it to her.”

“A third,” Shelley repeated. “Bernie Baum is also in the market.”

Abe reacted to this as if someone had driven a needle into his fat backside.

“Baum?” His voice shot up. “You haven’t talked to him, have you?”

“Not yet,” Shelley said quietly, “but Martha is going to if she doesn’t get a third from you.”

“Baum would never give her a third!”

“He might if he knew he was doing you out of a deal. Baum hates your guts, doesn’t he, Abe?”

“Listen, you old swindler,” Abe snarled, leaning forward and glaring at Shelley. “You don’t bluff me! Baum would never give you a third... never! I know. You don’t try your con tricks on me!”

“Look, Abe,” Shelley said, mildly, “don’t let us argue about this. You know Martha. She wants a third. She’s willing to peddle our plan around to all the big fences — and you’re not the only one — until she does get a third. She will begin with Bernie. This isn’t for peanuts. The take will be worth two million dollars. Even if you pick up a quarter of that, you’re making nice, safe money. We want a third, Abe... just like that or we go talk to Bernie.”

Abe knew when he had struck bottom.

“That Martha!” he said in disgust. “I can’t get along with women who overeat. There’s something about them.”

“Never mind how Martha eats,” Shelley said, his charming, old world smile now in evidence. He sensed he had won. “Do we get a third or don’t we?”

Abe glared at him.

“Yes, you do, you thief!”

“Don’t get excited, Abe,” Shelley said. “We’re all going to make a nice slice of money. Oh, there’s one other thing...”

Abe scowled suspiciously.

“What now?”

“Martha wants a piece of jewellery... a bracelet or a watch. Something fancy. This is strictly a loan, but she needs it to swing this job. You remember you promised...”

“There are times when I think I should have my head examined,” Abe said, but he unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a long flat jewel case. “I’m having this back, Henry... no tricks.”

Shelley opened the case and regarded the platinum and diamond bracelet with approval.

“Don’t be so suspicious, Abe. You’ll end up not trusting yourself.” He put the case in his pocket. “Very nice: what’s it worth?”

“Eighteen thousand dollars. I want a receipt.” Abe found a piece of paper, scribbled on it and pushed it across the desk. Shelley signed his name and then got to his feet.

“I’ll go along and meet Johnny Robins,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be doing this,” Abe said, staring up at him, “if Martha wasn’t handling it. That tub of lard has brains.”

Shelley nodded.

“Yes, she has, Abe. She has.”

“I want you to understand, mister,” Al Barney said to me as the barman brought his fifth refill of beer, “that I’m inclined to add a little colour to my stories. If I could spell, I’d write books myself... if I could write. So you’ll have to go along with the poet’s licence. It’s just possible what I’m telling you didn’t happen the way I’m telling it... don’t get me wrong... I’m talking about the little details, the local colour, but when I sit here with a glass of beer in my hand, I’m inclined to let my imagination take some exercise.” He scratched his vast belly and looked at me. “That’s about all the exercise I ever take.”

“Go ahead,” I said, “I’m still listening.”

Al sipped his beer, then set the glass down on the table.

“Well, mister, we’ve got Abe Schulman and Henry Shelley on the stage, now we’ll take a look at Martha Shelley. She and Henry hooked up after she had come out of jail. Don’t imagine they were married. She knew he was one of the smoothest con men in the business and he knew she was one of the cleverest jewel thieves. But get this right — she never stole anything herself. She always organised the steals. She was so damned fat I doubt if she would be capable of stealing a dummy out of a baby’s mouth, but she had a brain and Henry appreciated that. Martha had just come out a jail after a five-year stretch. Putting a woman like Martha behind bars meant she really suffered because Martha lived for food and you can imagine the kind of chow she got dished out to her in jail. She came out 80 lbs lighter and with a vowed intention of never, repeat never, ever going back again. She met Henry at some cheap motel outside Los Angeles: a chance meeting. She knew him by reputation and he knew her by reputation. Martha had the idea on which she had been working during the time she had spent in a cell. She suddenly had the inspiration of getting Henry in on the act. He listened and fell for the idea. They decided Abe Schulman was essential to the plan if the money was to materialise and that’s all they were interested in — the money. Martha had a young niece who she knew would be useful, but they would have to have another juvenile lead as well as the niece, whose name was Gilda something-or-other. Her father — Martha’s brother — had been a Verdi fan: the guy who wrote operas. Gilda’s old man had just come back from one of those goddam operas when the girl was born. So she got called Gilda.”

“Rigoletto,” I said.

Al stared at me, scratched his paunch and took another drink.

“I wouldn’t know. Anyway, eventually, this girl became a trapeze artist with a small time circus. The money was no good to her and when Martha came out of jail, she got the idea that she could use Gilda and Gilda liked the idea. A trapeze artist can be very useful to have around when you are working upper storey windows.” Al paused and regarded his glass, then went on, “I want you to get the picture of Martha in your mind. She was about the fattest woman I’ve ever seen. When these old cows come down from New York, you see some fat, but Martha was in a class of her own. She was a compulsive eater... when she wasn’t using a knife and fork, she was stuffing herself with candy and cream buns. I reckon Martha went 280 lbs. if she went a pound. She was short, square and blonde. She was around fifty-four years of age when she met up with Henry. She had more brains in her little finger than Henry had in the whole of his head. She dreamed up this big jewel take. She organised it. It was her idea that Abe should find the second juvenile lead. Abe was always in contact with the out-of-towners, and Martha was anxious the other sharks didn’t hear of her idea. If they did get to hear of it, they too would have moved in.

“Martha had always been careful with her money — not like Henry, and she had undertaken to finance the operation. She didn’t tell Henry how much capital she had. In actual fact, she had around twelve thousand dollars tucked up her girdle and she had made up her mind to put the operation on as it should be put on.

“She took a three-room suite at the Plaza Hotel on Bay Shore Drive. Nothing over deluxe, but good. She got the penthouse suite which suited Gilda who believed in having comfort for nothing. It pleased Henry too who liked to live up to his phony background, and besides, it wasn’t costing him anything either.

“While Henry was talking to Abe, Martha was sitting under a sun umbrella on the private terrace that went with the penthouse, eating peppermint creams while Gilda was lying in the full sun on a Li-Lo as naked as the back of my hand...”

Martha Shelley, better known in the underworld as Fats Gummrich, put two fat fingers into the carton and selected a chocolate which she regarded with affection before popping it into her mouth.

“Cover yourself up, girl,” she said, looking at Gilda’s naked brown back. “Henry could walk in at any moment... what would he think?”

Gilda, lying face down, rested her head on her crossed arms, lifted her long, lovely looking legs and tightened her lean buttocks. She giggled.

“I know what he would think,” she said. “But who cares? That old goat’s got beyond it.”

“No man ever gets beyond it — anyway, not in his mind,” Martha said. “Put something on!”

Gilda turned on her back, crossing her legs, and looked up at the brilliant blue sky through her sun goggles.

She was twenty-five years of age: her hair was thick, worn long and the colour of a ripe chestnut. She had large green eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes and one of those gamin, interesting faces that make men’s heads turn — not strictly beautiful, but beautiful enough. Her suntanned body was sensational. There was no bikini whiteness. When Gilda sunbathed, she sunbathed in the nude.

“You eat too much,” she said, lifting her cone-shaped breasts. “How can you go on stuffing yourself hour after hour... ugh!”

“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you!” Martha snapped. “Cover yourself up! I don’t want Henry to get upset. He has old fashioned ideas.”

Gilda waved her long legs in the air as she gave a hoot of laughter.

“That’s funny! The old buzzard gave me the biggest bruise on my bottom I’ve had in weeks! Look...” She rolled over, pointing.

Martha controlled a snigger.

“Well, maybe he isn’t all that old fashioned, but cover yourself up, honey. I’ve enough trouble without Henry getting out of hand.”

Grimacing, Gilda pulled a wrap off a chair by her.

“What trouble? I thought everything was fixed.” She laid the wrap across her middle.

“Do you want one of these?” Martha held up a peppermint cream.

“In this heat? No, thank you!” Gilda turned on her side to stare up at the massive woman under the sun umbrella. “What trouble?”

“No trouble,” Henry Shelley said coming silently out on to the terrace. He eyed Gilda’s exposed breasts with appreciation. “No trouble at all. Abe has everything taken care of.” He watched with regret Gilda pull the wrap up to her chin.

“Take your eyes off me, you old lecher!” she said.

“Well, they do say a priest is allowed to read a menu in Lent,” Henry said with a sly grin and sat down near Martha.

“That’s enough of that!” Martha said sharply. “What did Abe say?”

“Well, as was expected, he screamed to high heaven, but he promised in the end to pay a third. He’s found us a good boy. He’ll be along in a couple of days. He’s getting fitted for his uniform and he is buying a car... he knows about cars. In a couple of days’ time, we can get moving.”

“You’ve seen him?”

Henry nodded. He touched his temples with his silk handkerchief while he eyed Gilda’s exposed legs. Pretty girl, he thought a little sadly. In his past, he had had much amusement with pretty girls.

“He’s made to measure. A little tough, but we’ll be able to work with him, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean — tough?” Martha asked, delving into the carton again.

“He has a quick temper. He’s inclined to hit out if someone doesn’t please him, but I know that type. He’ll be all right in any emergency.” The old grey eyes moved from Gilda to Martha. The movement of his eyes alerted Martha. She looked at Gilda. “Suppose you get dressed, honey? I thought we would all go down to the Casino.”

“That means you two old squares want to yak together,” Gilda said. She got to her feet, holding the wrap against her and then walked across the terrace, swinging her naked hips while Henry watched, entranced.

“Lovely girl,” he murmured, pulling at his moustache.

“Wants her bottom smacked!” Martha said, outraged. “What about this boy?”

Henry explained what Abe had told him, then went on, “I met him and I like him. There’s no doubt he can handle this job. It’s just...” He fingered his string tie. “There’s Gilda.”

“You mean he could fall for her?”

“He’ll do that for sure.”

“Well, so what?” Martha dug out another chocolate. “She needs a man. I’d rather it be someone in the family... that wouldn’t worry me. Can he handle safes?”

“Abe swears by him.”

“Did you get a brooch or something from Abe?”

Henry took from his pocket the jewel case.

“Abe extended himself. It’s worth eighteen grand.”

Martha examined the bracelet, then nodded her approval.

“Do you think we are going to have trouble with Abe, Henry?”

“I don’t think so. He’s tricky, but he’s cooperating all along the line. The big test is when we get the stuff and ask for the money.”

Martha brooded for a long moment, then she slipped the jewel case into her handbag, lying on the table.

“Do you think it is going to work, Henry?” she asked, suddenly a little doubtful.

Henry crossed his long legs and stared out at the busy harbour below.

“It’s got to work, hasn’t it?” he said.

Two days later, the three were on the terrace: none of them revealing the slight tension they were all feeling. Martha and Henry sat in lounging chairs under the shade of the big sun umbrella. Gilda, in a white skimpy bikini that set off her golden skin, lay in the full sun.

Martha was working on a piece of embroidery, stretched on a frame and from time to time, dipping into a big box of chocolates Harry had bought at the gift shop down in the lobby. Henry was studying the Stock Exchange column in the New York Times. In his imagination, he bought and sold many stocks and could spend hours working out his imaginary profits. Gilda lay limply on the Li-Lo, feeling the rays of the sun burning into her. She could lie that way for hours. Neither Martha nor Henry had an idea what went on in her mind while she sunbathed. Henry thought probably nothing, but Martha, who knew her better, wasn’t so sure.

The sound of the telephone brought them alert. Martha put down her embroidery frame. Gilda lifted her head. Henry dropped his newspaper, got to his feet and walked with that slow gait that reminded Martha of the uneven movements of a stork into the living-room.

They heard him say “Yes?” in that deep aristocratic voice of his, then, “Tell him to come up if you please.”

Henry returned to the terrace.

“Our chauffeur has arrived.”

“Cover yourself up, Gilda!” Martha said. “Put that wrap on!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Gilda exclaimed impatiently, but she got up and pulled on the wrap. She walked over to the balcony rail and leaned over it, staring down at the crowded swimming pool in the hotel garden.

Johnny Robins made an impact on Martha. He came on to the terrace, immaculate in a well-cut, dark blue chauffeur’s uniform, a peaked cap under his arm. He was a tall, powerfully built man with close-cut black hair, a narrow forehead, a blunt nose, eyes set wide apart and hazel-green, and a thin, tight mouth. Everything about him hinted of strength with a hidden vein of violence. He walked like a professional fighter: relaxed, and with silent, springy steps.

“Hello, Johnny,” Martha said as she eyed him. “Welcome.”

“Hello. I’ve heard about you,” Johnny said, and his hard face lit up with an easy smile. “The old gentleman has been telling me about you.”

“Don’t call me that!” Henry said curtly, annoyed. “You call me the Colonel!”

Johnny threw back his head and laughed.

“Sure... why not?” His eyes went from Martha to Gilda’s shapely back. Even the wrap couldn’t disguise Gilda’s contours. Watching him, the other two saw the look of awakening interest. “Is that Miss Rigoletto I’ve been hearing about?”

Gilda turned slowly and surveyed him from head to foot. She felt a stab of excitement run through her at the sight of this man, but her expression remained remote and disinterested.

They regarded each other, then Johnny stroked the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Ah... hmmm.” He turned to Martha. “I think I’m going to like it here.” He grinned and began to unbutton his double-breasted jacket. “Phew! I’m hot. Have you seen the beauty I’ve bought you? Look at it. The steel grey job on the drive-in.”

Martha hauled herself to her feet. She and Henry joined Gilda at the balcony rail. They all looked down at the Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham parked by the entrance to the hotel.

Martha sucked in her breath. “Hell! What did that cost me?” she demanded, turning to glare at Johnny.

“Two thousand eight hundred dollars,” he told her. “It’s a giveaway price. I’ll sell it again for four thousand. You can’t lose.”

Martha peered down at the car again. She felt a tingle of excitement run up her larded spine. This was a car! This was the kind of car she had often dreamed about when shut in her cell.

“You’re sure? You really mean you can sell it again for four?”

Johnny squinted at her: his eyes turned hard.

“When I say something, I say something.”

Martha studied him, then she nodded, satisfied. Abe, she felt, had made the right choice. This man might be difficult, but she was now sure that he was right for the job, and that was all Martha cared about.

“Would you like a drink, Johnny?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t drink.” He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of one of the chairs, then he sat down.

“Let’s talk business. The old... the Colonel gave me the general outline. Now I want details.”

Martha lowered her enormous bulk into a chair near his. She relaxed back, her fingers hunting for a chocolate. Henry took a chair near hers. Gilda pulled her wrap closer and more provocatively around her and remained by the balcony rail.

Johnny looked at her.

“Isn’t Miss Rigoletto in on this?” he asked.

“Of course... come and sit down, Gilda,” Martha said, patting a chair near hers.

“You yak... I’m taking a swim,” Gilda said, and without looking at Johnny, she left the terrace.

Al Barney finished the last of his beer, then rattled the glass impatiently on the table until the barman brought him a refill.

“All this talking makes me thirsty,” he said, catching my eye. “I get scratchy at the back of my throat.”

I said I understood.

“Well, mister, I now want to fill you in how Martha got her idea for this big steal,” Al said after a long gulp of beer. “Around eight years ago, she was running a little gang of smart jewel thieves — three of them. They did a hold-up job — a little crude. There was a rich old cow loaded with jewels who went every night always at the same time to the Miami Casino. Martha just couldn’t resist the temptation. She organised the stick-up. The guys got the loot, then Martha was hit by a hurricane. What she didn’t know was the jewels were insured by the National Fidelity of California, and that is the toughest, roughest insurance company in the whole of the States. They have a man there named Maddox who looks after the Claims Department. To him, so I’m told, paying out a claim is like losing a quart of his own blood. Tangling with Maddox is about ten times as dangerous as tangling with a puff adder.

“One of the stick-up artists had a missing finger, and in spite of being scared half-dotty, the victim of the hold-up noticed this. Maddox had the most comprehensive card index of every jewel thief in the world: big and little. He had only to press a few buttons and out came Joe Salik’s card. It took Maddox’s investigators three days to pick up Joe and then they worked him over — make no mistake about this. Maddox’s investigators play rough. Joe talked, and Martha found herself behind bars.

“She shared her cell with a middle-aged woman who was in for embezzlement, and this woman, her name was Hetty something-or-other, was a talker. She had worked for Alan Frisby, an insurance broker in Paradise City. He acted for all the top insurance companies in the country. If you wanted to insure something special, you went along and talked to Frisby and he told you impartially which company to go to for your particular coverage, the best rates and he fixed the deal. He had a very sound, flourishing business.

“Well, Hetty talked, and Martha listened and from what she got told, she realised how she could organise the big steal. She got from Hetty inside information that nobody should know, and it was this information that inspired Martha to make the plan that she hoped would put her on easy street for the rest of her eating life.” Al paused, shifted his enormous body to a more comfortable position, then asked, “You’re following so far, mister?”

I said I was.

The Villa Bellevue was on Lansdown Avenue: one of the swank avenues of Paradise City. It was a compact, de luxe, ranch house type of building with four bedrooms, four bathrooms, an enormous living-room, a deluxe kitchen, servants’ quarters, a big terrace and a garage for four cars. Leading down by steps from the terrace was a small, screened private beach, equipped with hot and cold showers, changing rooms and a cocktail bar. The ranch house was owned by Jack Carson, a wealthy New York stockbroker who had bought the place as an investment. He rented it furnished for $1,500 a month. After some heavy haggling, Martha got it for $1,300 and signed up for three months. The price outraged her, but she knew that if she was going to swing this job she had to have the right background and the right address.

A day after Johnny had joined the trio, the Cadillac moved off from the Plaza Hotel, heading for Paradise City. Johnny, in his uniform, was at the wheel. Next to him was Flo, the coloured maid, who had been with Martha now for the past three years.

Flo was a tall, thin Negress who, at one time, had been a skillful shoplifter, but eventually the cops caught up with her and, like Martha, she had decided she would never go back behind the bars again. She and Martha got along well together. Flo never asked questions. She guessed there was some job on, but she didn’t want to know about it. Her job was to supply Martha and the rest of them with meals, keep the villa clean and pick up $100 a week which was what Martha was paying her.

In the back of the roomy Cadillac were Martha, Henry and Gilda.

During the twenty-four hours that they remained at the Plaza Hotel while waiting to move to Paradise City, Gilda and Johnny probed each other out: like a dog and a bitch, not quite knowing if they would fight or make love.

There was nothing that Gilda didn’t know about men. She had had her first sexual experience at the age of fifteen. She liked sex, and had had many men during the following years, but now, at the age of twenty-five, she had decided she wanted to get married and to settle down. This job that Martha was planning would give her, she hoped, the necessary capital to have a home, possibly a husband and possibly a family.

Johnny interested her. She knew from long experience that he wanted her the moment he set eyes on her. She knew too that having Johnny as a lover would be one of the most exciting of all her sexual experiences. She liked the look of him: he could just possibly be the partner she had been hoping to find... just possibly. She wanted to get to know him better, so she told herself to play it cool. No matter how much he put on the pressure, he wasn’t going to have her. No ring — no bed. If eventually, there was no ring... then it would be just too bad.

They arrived at the villa late in the afternoon. They were all impressed with it.

“I’ll say!” Martha exclaimed, heaving her bulk from room to room, inspecting everything. “So it should be good! Look what I’m paying... thirteen hundred dollars a month!”

She chose the largest and best bedroom for herself, gave the second best to Henry and the other two bedrooms which were pleasant enough to Gilda and Johnny: all rooms had a view over the beach and the sea.

Gilda went immediately to her room, changed into a bikini and then ran down the steps to the sea. A few minutes later, Johnny joined her. Stripped down to brief trunks, his muscular, powerful lean body was impressive. Seeing him as he came running across the sand, Gilda again felt a stab of almost pain run through her. To be made love to by a man like this! She forced herself to turn away and she swam with powerful, professional strokes out to sea. She prided herself on her prowess as an expert swimmer and she was confident that she would not only impress him, but leave him far behind. It came as a distinct shock when she paused to find him just behind her. She shook the water out of her eyes and lifted her eyebrows.

“You’re quite a swimmer,” she said, treading water.

“You’re not so bad either.” He grinned. “Race you back?”

She nodded.

Martha, sitting on the terrace, holding a carton of chocolates and dipping into it from time to time with Henry by her side, watched the two as they raced back to the shore.

“She’s showing off,” she said as she saw Gilda was leaving Johnny behind.

Henry watched with critical interest.

“Women show off to men... men to women... that’s nature.”

Johnny just got ahead in the last twenty yards, but only just. There wasn’t more than inches between them as he was the first to touch the sea wall.

“Women!” Henry shook his head. “Wonderful creatures. She could have beaten him by ten yards. Did you see she deliberately slowed down to let him win?”

Martha snorted.

“Well, if it makes him happy...”

“Of course it does.” Henry crossed one stork-like leg over the other. “Men never like being beaten by women.”