The World in My Pocket

I

At six o’clock a.m. on Friday morning, after a restless night, Gypo got out of his bunk and walked over to the open window to look at the sun as it came up from behind the mountains.

In two hours’ time the job that had been discussed and discussed until his brain was dizzy would begin. He would be pitting his training, his skill and his cunning against one of the most difficult locks devised, and he felt uneasy. Suppose it defeated him? He flinched at the thought of Morgan’s anger.

Making an effort to control his nerves, he went over to a tin bowl, filled it with cold water and washed his face. He shaved, nicking himself in several places, noticing with a feeling of dismay that his hand was far from steady. To feel the fall of the tumblers on the lock, to catch them at the right moment meant moving the dial a hair’s breadth at a time, and this called for a rock-steady hand.

Looking at his trembling hands, Gypo drew in a long, deep breath. He must control his excitement and anxiety, he told himself. Always he had prided himself on the sensitiveness of his fingers and the steadiness of his hands. If he allowed himself to get nervous the lock was certain to defeat him.

He looked across the room to where an ornate wooden crucifix, which his mother had given him, hung on the wall. Perhaps this was the time to pray, he thought: something he hadn’t done for years.

But when he knelt down before the crucifix, crossing himself as he had been taught, he discovered that he had forgotten how to pray. He realized that he couldn’t ask for help when he was going to do something he knew to be wrong, and he could only mumble incoherently, repeating over and over again, the words: ‘Forgive me.’

In a room on the outskirts of the town, Kitson was heating coffee, having just got out of bed. He was aware of a cold clutch of fear gripping him.

He had spent a bad night, worrying and tossing on the bed. Everything was now ready. At eight o’clock, it would begin, and there would be no turning back. It was only the thought that he would have Ginny to himself for two days that kept him from throwing his few belongings into a bag and getting out of town and as far away from Morgan as a train could take him.

He felt in his bones that this job was doomed to fail, but Ginny’s attraction and his feverish, immature love for her urged him on.

When the coffee was ready, he found he couldn’t drink it. The smell of it made him feel sick, and he hurriedly emptied the contents of the cup into the sink.

In another room, in another street, not far from Kitson’s home, Morgan sat at the window, looking across the roofs of the buildings, watching the sunrise, a cigarette between his thin lips, his mind going over the final preparations that he had checked the previous night.

He was like a general before the battle, checking over in his mind each move that he had planned, satisfied that he had done his job well. He was now prepared to accept the consequences of either victory or defeat, knowing that there was nothing more he could do to make his plan better or safer. Everything now depended on the individuals concerned. If Ginny lost her nerve; if Ed failed to shoot straight; if Kitson failed to handle the car and the caravan on his own; if Gypo went haywire and couldn’t bust into the truck; innumerable ‘ifs’, but nothing he could do about it. Not once did Morgan question his own ability. He was completely sure of himself, and he looked down at his rock-steady hands, satisfied that his nerves were tough and he wouldn’t crack.

In another part of the town, in his two-room apartment, Bleck was still in bed. He lay on his back, watching the sunlight creep up the wall, knowing that when it reached the right-hand corner of the ceiling, it would be time to get up.

Bleck had been tempted to call up Glorie the previous night and get her to spend the night with him, but he knew the danger of this. His bags were packed and his personal belongings had been put into store. Glorie would know immediately that he planned to leave town and she would ask questions. She might even make a scene, so on this night before the big job, Bleck had to sleep alone: something he hadn’t done in years, and he found the night long and lonely.

Now, as he watched the sunlight edge slowly into the room, he wondered how he would feel after he had killed the guard. This would be the final step in his criminal career. Never before had he planned to kill anyone, being always careful to arrange his petty robberies so that no one got hurt.

He had no compunction about killing the guard. It was part of the job, and he accepted the fact. The man had to die, otherwise the plan would fail, but in spite of accepting the fact, Bleck couldn’t help wondering how he would feel when he came out from behind his cover and walked over to the dead man and looked at him. He had talked to killers while he had been in prison, and he had seen a shifty, uneasy, scared expression in their eyes as they had boasted of what they had done. He knew they felt themselves to be people apart. The expression in their eyes was something he had never seen in the eyes of any other man no matter how badly they had lived. He wondered if he too would look like that after he had killed the guard and the thought bothered him.

When he squeezed the trigger of the rifle, he would not only be killing a man, he would also be offering his own life as a hostage to fortune. From the moment the bullet sped on its way, his own life would no longer be safe until he was dead.

It would mean he would no longer trust anyone, that he would always stiffen at a knock on the door, that his hands would turn moist at the sight of a policeman and his sleep would be haunted by dreams. He would become one of the men apart.

The sunlight had by now reached the right-hand corner of the ceiling and he threw off the sheet and got out of bed. He crossed the room, picked up a half-empty bottle of Scotch and poured a stiff drink into a glass. He grimaced as the liquor filled his mouth, then with an effort, he swallowed it. For a few moments he stood motionless, then when he began to feel the effects of the liquor, he went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

In a shabby little room on the top floor of a rooming house on the outskirts of the town, Ginny was closing the lid of a suitcase that contained all her worldly belongings. She looked at her wristwatch and saw the time was twenty minutes to seven. There was no need for her to leave for Gypo’s workshop for another half an hour, she told herself and she went over to the window and looked down into the narrow, dirty street, lined on either side by refuse cans.

If they were lucky, she thought, in a few days or a few weeks, this sordid, dreary life she had been living would be a thing of the past. She would have money. She could go to New York, buy clothes, perhaps rent a penthouse apartment and live the life she had dreamed of living for years.

If they were lucky.

She had faith in Morgan. He thought the way she did. She had liked the phrase he had coined: the world in your pocket. The phrase exactly represented the life she wanted to live, and there was no other way of getting what she wanted except with a large sum of money.

If anyone could capture the truck and get at the money, it was Morgan.

As for the others.

She made a little face.

So much depended on Gypo. His excitability made her nervous. She only hoped Morgan would handle him.

Bleck might be troublesome. She had seen the way he kept looking at her. She would have to be careful when they were at the caravan camp never to be left alone with him.

She frowned when she thought of Kitson. He was so obviously in love with her. Her cold, calculating mind warmed a little as she remembered the expression in his eyes and his desperate anxiety to please during the drive to Marlow.

When she had the money, the wolves would move in, trying to get it from her. She was sure of that. It might not be such a bad idea to join up with Kitson. Between the two of them, they would have half a million dollars. He wouldn’t be hard to handle and she felt certain he was dependable. It would be safer too. People might wonder how a girl of twenty came to be so rich: a girl on her own was always suspect.

It was something to think about.

II

Morgan was the first to arrive.

He pulled up outside Gypo’s workshop as the hands on the Buick’s dashboard clock stood at ten minutes to eight. The previous night, he, Bleck and Gypo had worked over the car until they were satisfied that it was one hundred percent efficient, and Morgan had then taken it back to his place, giving it a tryout.

He found Gypo checking the tools he had put in the cupboard in the caravan.

He saw immediately that Gypo was pale, and his breathing laboured. When he handled the tools, his hands were shaking. That should pass, Morgan thought. It had got to pass.

Even he felt strung up now that they were so near to the first step in the plan, and he could excuse Gypo for feeling nervous, but he didn’t intend to excuse him if he didn’t settle down, and settle down fast.

‘Hi, Gypo,’ he said. ‘You okay?’

‘Sure,’ Gypo said, not meeting his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a hot day. Better the sun than the rain, huh?’

Ginny came into the shed, carrying a picnic basket and her suitcase.

Morgan thought the girl looked as if she had slept badly. There were shadows under her eyes and she seemed pale under her make-up.

‘Well, this is it,’ he said, going over to her. ‘Worried?’

She looked at him, her sea-green eyes impersonal and cool.

‘No more than you.’

He grinned at her.

‘That makes you worried then,’ he said.

Kitson came in, followed by Bleck.

Morgan had an immediate suspicion that Bleck had been drinking. His face was flushed, and he walked with a swagger.

This gave Morgan his first twinge of uneasiness.

Kitson seemed nervy, but much more in control of himself than either Gypo or Bleck, and this surprised Morgan.

It was now two minutes to eight, and he saw no point in hanging around stretching nerves that were already too taut.

‘Okay, fellows, let’s go,’ he said curtly. ‘Get the caravan out, you three. Ginny, take the MG and get over to the Agency.’

He walked with her to the car and watched her get in. He stood over her, looking down at her, thinking how cool she was and admiring her.

‘You know what to do, and you’ll do it right,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

She gave him a ghost of a smile and then started the engine.

Kitson came hurrying over.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Be careful how you drive. That car’s fast.’

She looked up at him and nodded.

‘Thanks: good luck to you,’ and, letting in the clutch, she drove the car out of the workshop.

Five minutes later, the Buick nosed its way out of the workshop, hauling the caravan.

Morgan and Bleck were sitting on the floor of the caravan.

Kitson was driving.

Gypo closed the doors of the workshop, then he hung a sign on the padlock that read: Closed for the Summer Vacation. He had a sudden presentiment that he would never see this old ramshackle shed again, where he had spent fifteen idle years of his life. Although he hadn’t earned much from the workshop he had grown to love it as only a sentimental Italian could love a place like this, and there were tears in his eyes as he got into the caravan.

‘What’s the matter, greaseball?’ Bleck demanded savagely. His nerves were crawling. ‘What the hell are you so sad about?’

‘Cut it out!’ Morgan barked, making room for Gypo. His cold, dangerous eyes made Bleck look away. Then punching Gypo lightly on his chest, Morgan said, ‘You’re going to have something a lot better than this. Your own villa, your own vines and as many cigars as you can smoke. Think of how the women will flock after you when they know you’re worth two hundred thousand bucks!’

Gypo nodded, forcing a watery smile.

‘I hope so, Frank. It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’

‘Sure, it’ll be all right,’ Morgan said. ‘You leave it to me. I’ve always steered you right, haven’t I?’

By the time they reached the dirt road leading up to the bottleneck the three men in the caravan were hot, sore and short-tempered. They hadn’t realized how hot it would be in that confined space with the sun beating down on the caravan; neither had they realized the springs were far from adequate.

Kitson drove fairly fast, and the three men, with nothing to hold on to, were badly shaken as the unsprung wheels of the caravan banged over the rough surfaces of the road.

Gypo was dropped off with one of the diversion signs and a hammer. He obviously disliked being left on his own and yet he was obviously relieved that he had no further part to play in the next operation.

‘The greaseball!’ Bleck muttered as the Buick, drawing the caravan, moved on up the road. ‘If he doesn’t bust open that truck, I’ll bust him open.’

Morgan reached up and jerked the automatic rifle from the clips screwed to the roof of the caravan. He thrust the rifle into Bleck’s hands.

‘Concentrate on this,’ he said, his voice hard and cold. ‘Never mind about Gypo. You look after your job and make sure you shoot straight.’

Bleck took the rifle.

‘I could do with a drink! Let’s have a shot, Frank. There’re a couple of bottles of Scotch in that basket.’

‘Later,’ Morgan said. ‘You do your job first and then we’ll celebrate.’

The caravan slowed and then stopped. Kitson opened up the back.

They had reached the bottleneck.

The two men, Bleck carrying the rifle and Morgan a .45, got out of the caravan. They stood for a moment drawing in deep breaths of the fresh morning air, feeling the sun hot on their faces.

Morgan said to Kitson. ‘You know what to do. Listen for the whistle and then come fast.’

Kitson nodded.

‘Good luck,’ he said, staring first at Bleck and then at Morgan.

‘You slay me!’ Bleck sneered. ‘Don’t you imagine you need some luck yourself?’

Kitson shrugged, then shifted into gear and began to drive away when Morgan realized they had forgotten the crowbars.

‘Hey! Hey!’ he bawled. ‘Stop!’

Kitson pulled up and leaned out of the window.

‘Goddamn it!’ Morgan said, glaring at Bleck. ‘Do I have to think of everything? We haven’t the crowbars!’

Kitson opened the back of the caravan and Bleck got the crowbars out, then Morgan, his eyes glittering angrily, waved Kitson on. As the Buick and the caravan moved off, Morgan picked up one of the crowbars and carried it to the side of the road.

Bleck followed him.

Morgan had been over the ground around the bottleneck so often, he knew practically every shrub and bush by heart. He pointed out where Bleck was to be. He himself went to a position about six yards from Bleck.

Both men lay down and examined the road.

This was a good spot, Bleck thought, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder and squinting through the sights. He was completely hidden, and yet he had a clear field of fire with no obstructions.

He began to feel a little less uneasy, but he wished he had had a drink before leaving the caravan. The three shots of Scotch he had had before leaving his apartment were dying on him.

Although it was still early, the sun now was making him sweat and his mouth was dry.

‘Okay?’ Morgan called.

‘Great,’ Bleck said, and after adjusting the sights of the rifle, he put it down beside him, took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands.

Morgan took off his tie and opened his shirt. He glanced at his watch. The time now was five minutes to eleven. If the truck drove at its usual speed, it would be expected at the bottleneck at half-past eleven. Ginny should be here, Morgan decided, in a quarter of an hour.

There was time for a cigarette, and taking out his pack, he lit one.

Seeing him smoking, Bleck also lit a cigarette. He put his hand on the rifle, noticing his hand was still shaking and he grimaced. He was feeling tense and his heart was thumping. This hanging about was making him feel bad.

After five minutes of silence, Morgan suddenly lifted his head to listen.

‘Sounds like a car coming,’ he said.

Bleck scrambled to his feet.

‘Get down, you fool!’ Morgan snarled. ‘It can’t be her! Get out of sight!’

Hurriedly, Bleck slid under cover.

A half a mile down the road they saw some vehicle coming in a thick cloud of dust. As it drew nearer they could see it was a military truck. Three soldiers were sitting in the cab. The truck drove past and went on up the road.

‘That’s the mail run,’ Morgan said. ‘They’re late.’

The hands of his watch crawled on. At twenty minutes past eleven, he began to feel uneasy. Had Ginny met with a smash? Had she lost her nerve and run out on them?

Bleck said, ‘Sweet suffering Pete! How much longer is she going to be?’

‘Maybe the traffic was bad out of town,’ Morgan said, frowning uneasily.

‘Suppose they don’t let her overtake them?’ Bleck said, half sitting up. ‘What the hell do we do if they get here before she does?’

‘We do nothing. It’ll mean we try again tomorrow.’

‘But they’ll be suspicious if they see her on the road again,’ Bleck said. ‘It’ll box up the whole plan!’

‘Pipe down!’ Morgan growled. ‘There’s time yet.’

He broke off as he heard in the distance the deep-throated roar of a car coming fast.

‘Here she comes!’

A few seconds later they saw the MG flashing along the stretch of straight road a mile from them.

‘She’s driving like hell!’ Bleck exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. ‘Look at the way she’s coming!’

Morgan, also on his feet, looked down the road.

‘Maybe she’s got the truck right behind her. Come on! Get those crowbars ready.’

He pulled a length of rag from his pocket and began to twist it into a rope. Then, taking a can of benzine from another pocket, he stepped on to the road. He heard Ginny change down as she reached the bend in the road, then the next moment he saw the MG as it came through the bottleneck. He waved, pointing to where he wanted her to stop.

She swung the car to the edge of the road and pulled up. Her face pale and her eyes glittering with anger and excitement, Ginny jumped out of the car.

‘The devils wouldn’t let me pass! To get past them, I nearly went off the road! Hurry!’ Her voice was tense and her face white. ‘They’re right behind me!’ She snatched a gun from the glove compartment, then picked up the half-gallon jar of pigs’ blood that was on the floor of the car. ‘Where?’

Morgan pointed to a spot on the road.

As she pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle and began to pour the blood onto the road, Morgan and Bleck pushed the ends of the crowbars under the car and heaved upwards. The powerful leverage lifted the car easily. It hung for a moment, then crashed over into the ditch.

‘Take the crowbars and get under cover,’ Morgan said to Bleck, and he pulled off the cap on the gas tank.

Carrying the crowbars, Bleck got back to his place of hiding.

Ginny was splashing the blood on her left arm and over her skirt, grimacing with disgust.

Morgan poured the benzine on the long strip of rag, dipped one end into the gas tank and then laid the six-foot length of rag onto the road.

‘They’re coming! I can see them!’ Bleck shouted. ‘Hurry!’

Morgan looked quickly at Ginny.

She was now lying face down in the middle of the puddle of blood, and she looked up at him, her face white and tense.

‘Got your gun?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Take it easy. I’ll be with you, kid.’

As he struck a match, he suddenly wondered if the overturned car was too close to her. When it went up, the heat might scorch her, but it was too late now to do anything about that.

‘Hurry!’ Bleck shouted, panic in his voice.

Morgan touched the end of the rag with the lighted match, then ran past Ginny and dived behind his cover.

The flame ran up the rag and into the gas tank. There was an immediate explosion. A blast of scorching air struck Morgan, making him gasp.

Black smoke and a huge orange-coloured flame engulfed the road.

‘She’ll be fried!’ Bleck yelled, shielding his face against the heat.

Morgan knew there was nothing he could do for Ginny. He switched his mind from her and looked down the road. He caught sight of the truck as it came into the bend to the bottleneck.

‘Here they come!’

Bleck grabbed up the rifle and slammed the butt against his shoulder. The sight weaved before his eyes as he desperately tried to steady the rifle.

The big flame had died down now and the smoke had cleared a little. The car was still burning furiously, and the heat was scorching.

Ginny lay motionless in the middle of the road.

From where Bleck lay, the spectacle looked horribly realistic. The motionless girl, blood on her arms and her skirt, her long legs spread like those of a sawdust doll and the blazing car built up a convincing picture of a fatal accident.

Morgan cursed himself for not getting the car further away from the girl. Even where he lay, he found the heat intolerable. She was at least twenty feet closer to the blaze and he was sure she was being scorched alive. But she didn’t move nor show the slightest sign that she was suffering.

The truck came through the bottleneck.

Morgan’s fingers gripped the butt of his .45. He could see the driver and the guard. He watched their change of expressions when they saw the blazing car and the girl in the road. The driver slammed on his brakes, stopping the truck fifteen feet or so from where Ginny lay.

What was the next move to be? Morgan wondered. What were these two going to do? Everything now depended on this moment: his hopes and his plans hung in balance.

The guard was leaning forward, staring. The driver was shifting his gear stick into neutral.

Morgan saw both the side windows were open. At least that conformed to his planning.

There was a pause which seemed interminable to Morgan while the guard and the driver stared through the windshield at Ginny. Then the guard said something to the driver, who nodded.

This badly bothered Morgan. These two were too cool and unflustered by what they were seeing. Then he saw the guard reach forward and pick up a hand microphone.

For God’s sake! Morgan thought. He’s going to radio back for instructions!

He wondered if he should break cover and attempt to take them both. If he had thought they would have done this, he would have had Bleck on the other side of the road so they could come up on either side of the truck, but he dare not try a lone rush against these two.

He wondered how Ginny was feeling, lying there, being slowly scorched, not knowing what was happening, but aware that the truck had stopped within a few feet of her. Even in this crisis Morgan found time to admire the girl’s nerve. To lie there, waiting, not knowing what was happening, in the scorching heat, was a test for the strongest nerves.

He watched the guard talk into the microphone. He could hear his voice, but not what he was saying. This would mean their escape time would be cut down, Morgan thought. As soon as the truck went off the air, the Agency would know something was wrong and would set off the alarm.

The guard had now ceased talking and had hung up the microphone. He said something to the driver, then opened the truck door and got out. The driver remained where he was, watching through the windshield.

Morgan wondered what Bleck was doing. From where he lay, he couldn’t see him.

Bleck was sighting the rifle at the guard as he walked quickly towards Ginny, and he was cursing under his breath because his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t hold the rifle steady, and this threw him into a panic.

By now the guard was within ten feet of Ginny, and Bleck knew any moment Morgan would break cover.

The rifle sight wavered on the guard: on him a moment, off him the next.

Bleck heard a rustle of shrubs as Morgan came out on to the road. He did what he shouldn’t have done. He took his eyes off the guard and looked quickly to his right.

Morgan was moving fast and silently up to the on-side window of the truck, his .45 in his hand.

The guard was now bending over Ginny, but not touching her.

Perhaps he had a suspicion that there was something wrong with this setup. Perhaps he felt he was being watched. He suddenly looked back over his shoulder.

Morgan was now at the window, his gun pointing at the startled driver, who sat paralysed.

Ginny sat up abruptly.

The guard whipped around and his hand smashed down on her wrist as she was lifting her gun. His movement was unbelievably fast. With his left hand he hit her across her face, knocking her flat. With his right hand, he whipped his gun out of its holster.

The two movements were too quick for the eye to follow.

His breath rasping at the back of his throat, Bleck pulled the trigger of the rifle instead of squeezing it. The rifle sight jerked upwards as the gun went off. The bullet passed harmlessly over the guard’s head.

As Bleck fired, the driver who had been sitting motionless in the cab, staring at Morgan, suddenly threw himself sideways, his hand stabbing towards the three buttons on the dashboard.

Morgan shot him in the face.

The guard swung his gun on Morgan. As he fired, Ginny, still dazed by the blow she had received, struck at his arm, shifting his aim, but not enough.

Morgan felt a heavy blow against his ribs and then a burning pain. The shock sent him down on one knee, but he quickly recovered. He took a snap shot at the guard who had Ginny now hanging on his gun arm.

His shot hit the guard in the centre of his forehead, killing him instantly. His body slumped down on Ginny, flattening her on the road.

Morgan crawled to his feet, the pain in his side making him grit his teeth.

He was in time to see the driver’s hand creep towards one of the buttons on the dashboard. Before Morgan could move, the fumbling finger reached the button and pressed it.

Steel shutters, moving like the spring of a released mousetrap, snapped down over the windows and the windshield, turning the truck into a steel box.

Cursing, Morgan staggered upright and slammed his gun butt against the shutter, covering the driver’s window, in a vicious explosion of disappointment. As he stood there, panting, he heard through the shutter a sighing groan from the driver, and then the sound of his body rolling off the seat onto the floor.

Bleck came rushing out from behind his cover, clutching the automatic rifle, his face livid.

Morgan turned and stared at him. There was an expression in his eyes that brought Bleck to an abrupt standstill.

‘You yellow rat!’ Morgan snarled. ‘I’ve a mind to kill you!’

Bleck dropped the rifle and waved his hands imploringly.

‘I tried to hit him!’ he cried wildly. ‘I got the sights wrong and then the rifle jammed!’

Morgan suddenly realized he was bleeding, and opening his coat, he saw a great patch of blood on his shirt.

Ginny came unsteadily up to him. Her face was red from the heat of the burning car and her hair was singed.

‘Is it bad?’ she asked anxiously.

‘It’s nothing,’ Morgan said, but he was uneasy, as he was feeling cold and faint. He pushed the whistle into her hand. ‘Get Kitson fast.’

She blew the whistle: a long, shrill blast; paused and then blew it again.

‘The driver?’ she asked as Morgan leaned against the side of the truck, his breathing quick and light.

‘I fixed him. He managed to press one of the buttons, but I don’t think he touched the others. I heard him fall.’

Bleck had come closer and was standing helplessly near Morgan.

‘Frank! You’re bleeding!’

‘Get away from me, you creep!’ Morgan snarled. ‘You’ve bitched up the whole plan. We’re sunk now!’

‘No!’ Ginny said sharply. ‘We can still do it! Come over here and sit down! Let me stop the bleeding!’

As soon as he had sat down by the side of the road, she stripped off his coat and shirt.

Bleck stood staring, not knowing what to do.

Morgan shouted at him, ‘Get the body out of sight! Do something, can’t you?’

Ginny examined the long furrow along Morgan’s ribs. It had been a close thing, but the ribs weren’t touched. She lifted her skirt and wrenched at the hem of her petticoat, tearing off a long strip of material. Then she picked up Morgan’s shirt, tore the part that wasn’t blood stained, made it into a pad and tied the pad tightly to the wound.

‘That will hold it for a while,’ she said. ‘It’ll have to be properly fixed as soon as we get to the camp. How does it feel?’

Morgan got slowly to his feet. He put on his coat, grimacing.

‘I’m all right. Quit fussing.’ He looked across at the truck. ‘We’re sunk. We can’t drive the truck into the caravan now, and time’s running out. If we want to save our hides, we’ll have to get the hell out of here pronto.’

Just then the Buick, pulling the caravan, came fast down the road and pulled up. Kitson, pale, and nervy, got out and looked questioningly at the truck and then at Morgan.

Bleck came out from behind a clump of bushes where he had left the guard’s body.

‘What happened?’ Kitson demanded. ‘I heard shooting.’

‘We’re sunk,’ Morgan said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Wait!’ Ginny said. ‘The Buick can push the truck into the caravan. It can be done! We’ve got to try it! We just can’t leave it here!’

Morgan screwed up his eyes, staring at her.

‘Yeah, what’s the matter with me? Of course.’ He turned to Kitson. ‘Uncouple the caravan and hurry!’

Catching the urgency in his voice, Kitson, bewildered, not knowing what had happened, ran over to the caravan and pulled out the coupling pin.

Morgan yelled at Bleck: ‘Help him! Come on! Come on! Get the caravan turned around. You, Ginny, get the Buick behind the truck!’

As Kitson and Bleck manhandled the caravan, Ginny drove the Buick past the truck, then reversed back so the Buick’s rear bumper came into contact with the truck’s rear bumper. Kitson and Bleck dragged the caravan close to the front of the truck.

‘Block the wheels so it can’t shift,’ Morgan said. ‘Get those crowbars, Ed! Use them to keep the front from tipping.’

Working with desperate speed, Kitson collected several big rocks and piled them against the wheels of the caravan while Bleck dug the end of the crowbars into the road, wedging them against the chassis of the caravan so it couldn’t tip forward.

‘Okay,’ Morgan said, waving to Ginny.

Kitson came to the front of the truck and stood by as Morgan opened the back of the caravan.

‘Take it steady,’ Morgan called.

Ginny began to move the Buick against the truck. Although the truck’s handbrake was on, the steady pressure from the Buick began to shift the truck.

Kitson and Bleck kept kicking the front wheels, steering the truck up the ramp of the caravan. Slowly, the truck moved into the caravan. The front wheels of the Buick mounted the ramp as it pushed the truck right inside.

‘Stop!’ Morgan called. ‘That’s got it! Ed, get the crowbars and the rifle. Kitson, couple up the caravan! Hurry! We haven’t a minute to waste!’

Ginny manoeuvred the Buick past the caravan, then turned and backed to the coupling pin which Kitson dropped into the slots.

She slid out of the driver’s seat and Kitson got in under the wheel. He turned the Buick and the caravan to face down the road.

Morgan and Bleck got into the caravan.

Both men were startled to see how much space the truck took up in the caravan. There was only about eighteen inches of clearance either side and two feet at the back. They had reckoned on sitting in the cab of the truck and it was obvious the travelling in this small space was going to be uncomfortable. If Kitson took a bend too fast the truck might shift and crush either of them.

‘Watch it,’ Morgan said as he got in. ‘If this damn truck shifts.’

Kitson nodded.

‘I’ll watch it.’

‘Hadn’t we better block the wheels?’ Bleck asked, hesitating at the door.

‘Get in, damn you!’ Morgan snarled. ‘There’s no time for that! Get going, Kitson!’

Kitson closed the back of the caravan, then ran to the driver’s seat and slid under the wheel.

Ginny had taken off her bloodstained skirt and blouse and was struggling into another grey skirt.

Kitson looked quickly at her, seeing how deadly pale she was.

Engaging gear, he drove fast down the road, feeling the sluggish response of the Buick as it dragged the great weight behind it.

As Ginny pulled up the zipper on the side of her skirt, he asked, ‘What happened?’

Briefly, her voice unsteady, she told him.

‘You mean there’s a dead man in the truck?’ Kitson asked, horrified.

‘If he’s not dead,’ Ginny said, ‘he’ll be radioing for help and we’ll be in trouble. Morgan said he had killed him.’

‘We’re going to this caravan camp with him in there?’

‘Oh, stop talking!’ Ginny said, her voice breaking. She turned away from him and hid her face in her hands.

Inside the caravan, Morgan sat with his back against the wall of the caravan, his feet braced against the rear wheel of the truck. He was thinking: Well, I’ve got it! Now I’ve got to hang on to it. I’ve killed two men for this. That was their luck. They had a lot of guts. Especially the driver. He knew I’d kill him if he moved and he did move. He had more guts than I’ve got. I wouldn’t have moved. I wouldn’t have tried for those buttons, not with a gun within a foot of my face, but he did it and he got the shutters shut. This puts us in a hell of a jam. We’re landed with his body. We’ve got to break into the truck and get him out. I hope he’s dead. If he comes to and gets that radio signal working, we’ll be sunk.

He stared up at the massive steel truck, thinking that just beyond that steel wall was a million dollars. The nagging, hot pain in his side meant nothing to him beside the excitement he felt as he thought of all that money so close to him now. On the other side of the truck, out of Morgan’s sight, Bleck squatted on the floor watching the truck, uneasy that it might shift and crush him. He had recovered his nerve now and he had got his second wind.

They had got the truck and he hadn’t been forced to kill a man. He had sidestepped the final step in his criminal career, and he realized now it was the thought of this step that had broken up his nerves. Now he was ready to tackle anything. He wasn’t after all a man apart, but he knew Morgan wouldn’t ever trust him again and he would have to watch him in case he tried to gyp him out of his share.

When Kitson had driven a couple of miles, he saw Gypo walking fast up the road towards the approaching Buick.

Kitson pulled up and Gypo ran towards him.

‘Have you got it?’ he asked, his eyes round. ‘It went all right?’

‘Yes,’ Kitson said. ‘Come on: get in the back!’

He got out and opened the back of the caravan. He went around with Gypo and looked inside.

‘Okay?’ he said to Morgan, who looked pale, his mouth drawn down with pain.

‘Yeah. get going!’ Morgan growled. ‘Come on in, Gypo!’

Gypo stared, coming to an abrupt stop.

‘What are you doing there? Why aren’t you riding in the truck?’

‘Get in!’ Morgan snarled. ‘We’ve got to get moving.’

‘I’m not getting in like that!’ Gypo said, his voice shooting up a note. ‘If that truck shifts, you’ll be squashed like a fly!’

Morgan pulled his .45 from his shoulder holster. As he did so, his coat opened and Gypo could see the bloodstained bandage across his chest.

‘Get in!’ Morgan said.

Kitson grabbed Gypo and shoved him into the caravan, then he ran around and pulled the lever down, shutting the back.

He got into the driving seat.

The car and the caravan headed fast towards the highway.